Interception
by AgnesDei
Summary: Jill Tuck must play a game of cat-and-mouse with Detective Hoffman, Special Agent Strahm and - as always - the memories of her child.  Rated M for everything.
1. Chapter 1

The knock on the door, although not entirely unexpected, caused a slight lurch in Jill's stomach. Reflexively, she touched the key around her neck, then gripped it briefly before slipping it back inside the neck of her blouse, where it dropped into the warm valley between her breasts and caused a momentary cold sting.

She had already risen from the couch, but held her place and decided to wait for another knock. She bit her lip, counting. After a few seconds it seemed clear that Jill's visitor had more patience than that, so she slipped on the chain and opened the door. The chain had been a wise move, she saw, as the door banged back against this restraint, shuddering slightly. The figure in the gap was little more than an outline against the inconveniently placed hall lamp, but she knew that hulking silhouette well enough. Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

"What do you want, Detective?" she asked, coolly. Hoffman leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming, and affected a sardonic pout.

"You used to call me 'Mark'," he chided her, and then – in a movement too fast for Jill to follow – he slipped one hand through the gap, twisted the chain and, somehow, unhooked it. Jill stepped back as Hoffman shouldered his way into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. All at once, she was conscious of two things. One, the detective's intimidating physical size, especially at such close quarters; and two, the fact that this was the first time she had met with him without John being present. In spite of all this, she gamely swallowed her apprehension and raised her chin.

"Get out," she said, quite deliberately not yelling. She clenched her teeth a little as Hoffman raised an eyebrow.

"Or what, Jill?" he asked, mocking, propping his hands upon his hips as he did so. Jill's eyes flicked down to the holstered Glock thus revealed, and worse, she knew that he had spotted this tiny glance. "Well?" he asked again. Jill half turned away and folded her arms, gripping her elbows tightly.

"I assume you're here for a reason?" she said, over her shoulder, not meeting his gaze.

"Of course," replied Hoffman, evenly, moving behind Jill and placing one hand on her shoulder with shocking candour. She bit back a gasp as his fingers strayed closer to her neck, over the fabric of her blouse and onto the bare skin without pause. To her surprise, his fingertips were curiously soft for a man with such a jagged edge to his persona. She closed her eyes for a second, but then snapped them open again and swung around defiantly. Hoffman's fingers remained where they were, so his hand fetched up beneath her chin, and now raised her face to his own.

"Ballsy, aren't we?" he asked, very quietly. Jill drew a deep, controlled breath, and this close she caught the scent of him. No cologne, just the merest hint of soap. She acted on instinct, reached up and slapped his hand away from her throat, then backed away, trying to move out of his reach.

Not fast enough. Hoffman grunted – unbelievably, he was still smirking – and tangled his fist in her hair, dragging her back into the circle of his arms, which tightened around her and lifted her off her feet as easily as if she were a kitten. Jill thrashed in his arms, but Hoffman breathed a guttural laugh into her ear before shoving her up against the wall and leaning on her with his whole body weight. For a moment, she squirmed furiously, until Hoffman gripped the back of her neck and squeezed until her vision swam.

"Stay still," he said, his voice still soft and steady, a thin veneer of gentility sheathing cold steel. Jill froze. "Now," Hoffman continued, "perhaps we can have a civilized conversation. There's been a complication. The FBI are taking over the case. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," gasped Jill with what air remained in her cramped lungs. Hoffman, evidently sensing this, drew his hand away from the back of her neck and allowed her to move. She growled, rounding on him, but kept her hands by her side, fists clenched, as he regarded her with wry amusement writ across his eyes.

"There's an agent called Peter Strahm heading the investigation. Now, who do you think he's going to want to talk to first?"

"Me, I suppose," said Jill, as sarcastically as she could muster, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. Distractedly, she briefly touched the back of her neck, where she was sure a hand-shaped bruise would soon be flowering.

"Got it in one," Hoffman was saying. "In which case, I think we have ourselves a little opportunity here, don't we?" He offered a lopsided smile, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a flask of scotch. Jill watched as he tipped it back and swallowed a generous slug of the cheap liquor.

"I thought you weren't drinking any more," she said.

Hoffman looked her up and down, his eyes soaked in scorn. "Since when do you give a fuck?" he asked, and stowed the flask once more.

"So what's this opportunity, Detective?" asked Jill, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

"I suggest you get to know Special Agent Strahm," Hoffman told her. "Find out what he knows, what he suspects...you know the drill,"

"What?" said Jill, bewildered. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a person of interest in a serial homicide case, and that's only one step away from 'suspect'. You're suggesting it would help if I made eyes at the FBI? Good grief, Hoffman, even you can't be that stupid. You're not under suspicion – why don't _you_ sleep with him, if you think it's such a good idea?"

"Very funny," said Hoffman, but his gaze was far from amused, and in fact now looked as if it were filling up with hot blood. Jill tried to defuse the tension by turning her head away, but an angry snort from Hoffman told her that this was the wrong decision. Before she could step away he had reached out and taken hold of her upper arm, turning her around and bearing her down over the back of the couch, hands gripping her shoulders. It was over in half a second, before she could raise so much as a yelp, and now her face was pressed into the cushions and her protestations muffled. Jill dragged her head up, spat her hair out of her mouth and tried again.

"You don't want to do this..." she began, but was cut off as Hoffman leaned into her, applying pressure to her lower back and derailing her train of thought.

"I think I do," he corrected her, "so don't try your cheap shit hostage negotiation on me, Jill." The pressure increased a little. "Do you think I'm one of those strung-out lowlifes you see at the clinic? Come on. You're smarter than that."

"I don't want to," hissed Jill, all semblance of calm leaking from her voice.

"That's as may be," replied Hoffman, calmly, "but be honest now. Do you think you can talk me down? Do you? Tell the truth and shame the devil, as they say."

"...no," breathed Jill, with the last of her equanimity.

"That's right," Hoffman purred, and stroked her hair, the gesture incongruous under the circumstances. Jill bit her tongue to keep from crying out as his free hand strayed to the hem of her skirt, toyed with it for a second and then slipped up the warm white silk of her inner thigh. Reflexively she squeezed her legs together, but Hoffman said, "Don't," and she sagged once more. His fingers found the soft-haired lips of her sex and now she whimpered, unable to stifle...what? All at once, Jill was unsure of herself, and her head spun as those probing fingers, still exquisitely soft and slow, slipped into the liquid centre of her and moved deeper yet, curling and seeking.

_Oh dear God_, was her only coherent thought now, the mantra squirrelling around in her hind-brain until she dizzied from it. She heard Hoffman exhale hoarsely and lean in closer as he found the spot he was seeking and zeroed in, thrusting his fingers in and out of her, right to the knuckle. Jill gasped aloud now, her back arching so forcefully that she almost squirmed free – except that escape was now light years from her mind. Something white hot exploded in her cunt; not the peak for which she was striving, but a plateau nonetheless. Jill groaned through gritted teeth and began to pant like a wounded animal as Hoffman delved even deeper into her, and now his thumb found her clitoris and circled it, teasing, taunting.

"Please..." she breathed, not even aware if she'd spoken aloud. Nevertheless, her plea drew a soft chuckle from Hoffman, who continued to play with her swollen clit almost as if preoccupied. Almost; Jill was dimly aware of his growing erection pressing into her bare buttock as she breathed.

"You only have to ask for it, Jill," he told her, his rhythm still slow and even.

"Hoffman, please..." she began, but he tutted at her as if she were a recalcitrant pupil and, to Jill's dismay, withdrew his fingers a little with the faintest of slippery sounds.

"I told you," he said, his voice now as soft as the blackest of sins, "to call me 'Mark'"

"Mark..."

"Yes?"

"Fuck me..."

"That's my girl," said Hoffman, genuine pleasure colouring his voice. Jill, barely conscious, just about heard the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of the zip.

At that moment, the telephone rang, the sound strident in the hot, heavy silence of the apartment. Only now did Jill cry out loud, and Hoffman drew back without ceremony and with a flagrant curse on his lips, zipping up his pants once more, loosing a frustrated sigh. Jill staggered to her feet, pushing her hair out of her eyes and smoothing her crumpled skirt back down over her hips with short, deliberate strokes. She kept her gaze on the floor – better, she felt, to look anywhere but at Hoffman's face – and moved to answer the call.

"Jill Tuck," she said, still gazing into the middle distance, her fingers clutching the receiver so tightly that her knuckles shaded to white.

"Ms. Tuck, my name's Special Agent Strahm. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," said the voice at the end of the line. Jill squirmed and gave Hoffman the briefest of sidelong glances, which he seemed to interpret accurately enough, though wisely remained silent. "I was wondering if I might speak with you."

"I don't see why not," said Jill, keeping her voice perfectly steady and, now, staring down Hoffman from across the room. His expression was indecipherable.

"Tonight, perhaps?" came the question down the line. "I can be with you in a few minutes and I don't expect to take up much of your time," continued Strahm. Jill, her gaze still locked with Hoffman's, waited for a response of some kind – any kind. She was afforded a barely perceptible nod, although she had no idea how he could have heard what the Special Agent had said to her. She finally tore her attention away from that penetrating stare and back to the conversation at hand.

"Of course," she said, firmly. "I'll see you shortly," and replaced the receiver. She took a few seconds' time out, drew a deep, shivering breath and turned back to Hoffman. He hadn't moved so much as an inch out of position.

"You'd better hide in the bedroom," she said, firmly, her stance stiffly defensive. "If you go out the front now, he may see you."

"Intend to," said Hoffman, carelessly. "You be smart now, Jill. We stand or we fall together, you know that. Well..." he paused on his way to the bedroom and looked back at her, a slow, cruel grin developing, then raised his wet, slippery fingers to his mouth and licked at her juices, "...I'll see you later."

The bedroom door slammed shut just as the doorbell chimed.


	2. Chapter 2

Jill opened the door and was taken aback for a second. Special Agent Peter Strahm was everything that...she really hadn't been expecting. He was tall and very broad shouldered, classically handsome in a somewhat old-fashioned way, and looked a touch ill at ease in a suit, as if he were far more accustomed to wearing casual clothing.

"Good evening, Ms. Tuck," he said, in a soft New Jersey accent that hadn't been apparent over the phone. He extracted his wallet from his inside pocket and allowed her time to inspect his badge and authorisation before flipping it shut. "Might I recommend using your door chain after dark, by the way?"

"I..." she hesitated, reflecting that it had been of no use at all in securing her home against Detective Hoffman, and then recovered her composure and smiled. "Of course, thank you. Please come in."

Nodding his thanks, Strahm stepped past Jill into the lounge and turned once, taking in the layout of the room in a single, economical glance; that was his law enforcement training at work, Jill noted. Always make sure the location is secure before proceeding. As his head swung back, Strahm caught Jill studying him and, just for a second, a quizzical look crossed his bright blue eyes. The moment passed, Jill cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her demurely.

"How can I help you?" she asked, and noticed that Strahm seemed momentarily uncomfortable.

"Perhaps it might be better if we sat down," he said. Jill glanced over at the couch and clamped her lips together, thinking back to what had taken place there not more than five minutes earlier. She exhaled softly and walked over to the table instead, sitting down and lacing her fingers together. Strahm joined her.

"I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions about your ex-husband, Ms. Tuck," he said, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

"I've already told the police everything I know about John," said Jill. She dropped her gaze for a second. As Strahm shifted position, the low light gleamed from the modest gold wedding ring he wore, and Jill indulged in some brief speculation on the matter. "We separated, and not exactly happily as you might imagine. I haven't spoken to him in person for at least eighteen months now."

"I understand that this is hard for you, Ms. Tuck..."

"Please, call me 'Jill'"

"I understand, Jill," he nodded curtly, "but I need to make sure that there's nothing – _nothing – _I've overlooked. The situation's getting out of control. That's why I'm here," he finished, sitting back in his chair, gazing levelly at her. In the intervening silence, a cop car howled momentarily somewhere out in the bowels of the city, punctuating the tension quite appropriately.

"You said you haven't spoken your ex-husband in person for a year and a half?"

"I haven't, no" Jill clenched her hands together.

"But you _have_ spoken with him since then?"

_Damn it_, thought Jill. She was aware that the scrutiny had intensified, and she lacked the strength to meet it, caught as she was in an attempt to sidestep the admission.

"I have, yes," she said, slowly. "However, I'm still not sure he told me anything that'll be of any use to your investigation."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that," said Strahm, not unkindly, with the smallest of interrogatory head tilts.

(_I need you to see to Eric's welfare from now on, Jill. I can't rely upon Detective Hoffman to honour the essential decencies_...)

"We talked about Gideon," said Jill, haltingly. It was an element of the truth. Gideon was present, whether spoken or unspoken, in every conversation she had with John. Where what once bound them together was love and communication, they were now tied by the death of their child and – of course – always by the Games.

(_W__hy do you rely upon him at all?_)

(_I have my reasons. I've always asked only that you trust me_)

"Gideon?" asked Strahm, focusing on her closely. She returned the intensity of his gaze. It was, all at once, strangely intimate.

(...w_hat right do you have to say that Jeff should learn to let go? You can't let go_...)

"Our son," said Jill, staring at her own reflection in the table top. Her eyes stung, and she twisted away and stood up in one movement. "I'm sorry. I really could use a drink. Can I get you something?" It was an excuse to retreat, even for a few minutes. She found half a bottle of Chenin Blanc in the fridge and wrenched out the cork. The neck of the bottle clattered loudly on the rim of the glass as she poured.

"Let me get that for you," said Strahm, right behind her ear. Jill started; she hadn't heard him approach. He took the bottle from her shaky grasp and set it on the counter, then turned back with the full glass and handed it to her. She wrapped both hands around it, unsure of her grip. Strahm remained standing close to her, his expression that of a man watching someone standing on the ledge of a high building.

"I apologise. I didn't mean to upset you," he said, gently.

"What is this," said Jill, her head snapping back, "a one-man game of Good Cop, Bad Cop?" She regretted the barb instantly, as Strahm visibly recoiled.

"I don't play games, Jill," he said, stonily. "That's your ex-husband's thing, remember? I'm just trying to save a few lives here. Nothing too major."

The sudden silence clanged.

"Can we start over, Agent Strahm?" said Jill. "I think we got off on just about the worst note possible. I really do want to be of assistance, believe me."

"Of course," said Strahm, some of the frost melting from his eyes. To her surprise, he fetched a second wine glass and carried the bottle back to the table. "It's Peter, by the way."

"John lost all perspective after Gideon died," said Jill, as they sat down. Strahm watched her over the rim of his wine glass, but said nothing for the moment. "Understandably, I suppose, and I can't deny that I was adrift for a while myself, but..." she sighed "...John never truly fitted into this world to begin with. Gideon was his anchor. Far more so than me, really, which is why the miscarriage destroyed our marriage so quickly."

"This is what it's all been about, then?" asked Strahm, quietly. "Does he blame you?"

(_All I wanted to do was help them_)

(_You can't help them. They have to help themselves_)

"No, he doesn't. He places appropriate blame," said Jill, firmly.

"I'm not sure that there's anything appropriate about John's crusade," replied Strahm, setting his glass aside and propping his chin in his hand.

"The police can't find John because they underestimate him," said Jill, evenly. "I believe you're already making the same mistake. No," she said, as Strahm opened his mouth to object, "I'm right. The world isn't what you think it is, believe me. He understands it. To answer the only question you came here to ask me: no. I don't know where John is. He removed me from his life for reasons of his own and I have never known him to back down on any decision he's made. If he calls me again I will let you know, but until then, it's late and I'm sorry."

For long seconds, Strahm looked as if he were about to argue the point, and then he dropped his gaze with a soft sigh and stood up. He paused only to fish a card from his inside pocket and hand it to Jill.

"My number," he said. "Please call me any time, day or night. This is serious, Jill."

"I'm aware of that,"

"I know you are," said Strahm. "I'm just not sure we're both using the same definition of the word. I'll let myself out."

After the front door had closed, Jill made her way to the bedroom, where Hoffman was already waiting for her, stretched out on the bed with his shirt unbuttoned and hands clasped behind his head, completely at ease.

"God-damned American hero, isn't he?" he said, smirking nastily. "I don't think you made him feel very welcome. Shame on you."

"I did my best," she retorted. "He's not going to be easy to break and you know it."

"What the fuck ever," growled Hoffman, "I'll think of something. In the meantime, I think we have some unfinished business. Come here."

Jill still had her hand on the door handle. "I'd rather not," she told him, wondering how much of that statement was a lie.

"I'm not asking, Jill," There was a warning note in his voice. She bit her lip and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, stripping off her blouse as she did so. Hoffman sat up and slipped her bra strap off her shoulder, sliding it down with infinite care, and applied his lips to her flesh just as gently. She felt his teeth nip at her skin and then he moved lower, mouth opening, flicking at her nipple with the very tip of his tongue, each stroke so delicate and so careful that she prickled from head to toe. Jill moaned and allowed her head to loll back, at which point Hoffman eased her onto her back and mounted her.

She was undeniably wet and could not have been more wanting, but even so she was unprepared for the size of him, and stifled a brief whimper by burying her face against his sweat-slicked chest. Hoffman chuckled.

"Look at me," he said, hoarsely. "I want you to look at me while I'm inside you."

Jill exhaled harshly, licking her lips, tasting the salt and musk of him. She raised her head, staring into Hoffman's eyes as he jerked his hips once or twice, making her entire body shudder violently. His eyes. She knew them to be blue, knew it as well as anything, but here in the gloom of her bedroom they were as black as a snake's. Now the shudder that ran through her body was as much a product of terror as of desire.

"Please don't hurt me," she breathed. Hoffman's lips twisted and he ground his hips against her until she cried out.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Don't..."

"You asked for this, Jill."

She knew it was the truth, and surrendered to it as he began to move within her.


	3. Chapter 3

_There was so much blood._

_Jill sucked in a lungful of air, meaning to scream, but all that came out was a jagged whine. She choked it back and looked down, putting her fingers between her thighs. The pain had subsided to a gnawing ache in her lower belly but still the hot flow continued. She traced a path through the slick, sticky fluid, her hand shaking uncontrollably as she found its source, and felt Gideon struggle inside her as he died._

_This time, she found the will to scream..._and woke, curling onto her side, arms wrapped around her belly, teeth sinking into the meat of her lower lip. The window was open but the room was still oppressively hot, and Jill sat up and swung her legs out from beneath the sheet. Behind her, she heard Hoffman turn over in his sleep with a short sigh. She turned and studied the gleaming curve of his bare shoulder for a moment, watching him breathe, then dragged herself off the bed and into the bathroom.

The harsh light, although unkind, was nowhere near as cruel as the mirror. Jill's eyes stung with shame as she looked herself over. Her breasts were red with a dozen bite marks, her wrists and upper arms bruised and her face shadowed and haunted. She turned away from her own gaze in disgust and twisted the shower faucet, turning it as far as it would go, and then stepped beneath the freezing deluge. The water felt like needles being driven beneath her skin but she endured, head bowed, eyes squeezed tight shut, refusing to acknowledge anything but the icy scourging.

Eventually, she whimpered and shut off the water, blinded for a second by the pain of cessation that somehow contrived to be worse than the wicked lash of the water itself. Jill stood in stoic silence until it subsided, then wrapped herself in a towel and switched off the light.

Hoffman was dressing when she returned, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt and then reaching for his shoulder holster, shrugging it on. He caught sight of her as he did so, and studied her as she shivered in the shadow of the bathroom door.

"You don't sleep too soundly, do you?" he asked, cryptically.

"Do you?" Jill retorted. Hoffman simply snorted and picked up his jacket.

"How long's it been since you were fucked as hard as that, Jill?" he said, quietly. "Have you _ever_ had it like that?"

"That's none of your business," she snapped, her eyes simmering. Hoffman crossed the room in two quick strides and loomed over her.

"Everything's my business," he said, cupping one hand behind her head and closing his mouth on hers. Jill parted her lips – the action was pure reflex – and tasted the sweet warmth of his tongue. Once again, she was surprised at this unexpected show of civility; Hoffman seemed to flip between extremes with no regard, no compunction and no real warning. She slid one arm around his neck, drawing herself closer with a softly muffled sigh, and traced her other hand up his chest and stroked his throat, feeling his pulse beat strong and deep against her fingertips. Presently, Hoffman broke contact and looked at her without speaking.

"I don't understand you," said Jill helplessly. For a shadow of a second she could swear that the briefest pain tainted that dispassionate gaze, and then the fledgling glimpse of humanity died away and the chill descended once more.

"Be grateful for that," he said, and turned away.

* * *

The cellars at the abandoned plant, always cool, were little short of icy. She knew that John had requested that the thermostat be adjusted earlier in the day, but had no clear idea why – only that it concerned one of the tests. Jill made a habit of staying as far as possible from involvement in the games. This, however, she could not avoid. Her fist clenched around the pig mask, and then she sighed harshly and dragged the hateful thing over her face before unlocking the scarred steel door in front of her.

She recoiled first of all at the smell; she understood at once what the problem was, and her face twisted in anger as she made a mental note to clean out the cell.

Eric Matthews lay in an inelegant heap on the mattress against the far wall of the cell, and did not stir at the muted creak of the door hinges. Jill moved on cat's feet to the makeshift bed and gently laid a folded blanket across his legs, then placed a tin plate of cold stew on the floor near his head. At this soft sound, however, he blinked his eyes open, bleary and bewildered in the poor wash of light from the open door. One hand shot out with surprising speed and closed around Jill's wrist, and he bared his teeth in a guttural snarl.

"Kill you bitch," he slurred, his throat clogged with spittle. Jill tugged her arm gently, but could not extricate herself.

"I'm sorry," hissed Jill, keeping her voice low and harsh to disguise it as best she could. "I didn't do this." She drew back a little, feeling his hand tighten around her arm, his touch cold and rough.

"You're not..." said Matthews, and started to drag himself up, using her arm for leverage.

She placed her free hand against his shoulder and shoved, and finally managed to dislodge his grip. Being only half awake in any case, he sagged, his head knocking against the damp wall as he blacked out again. Jill rubbed at her wrist, distractedly, and then checked his pulse out of habit. It was a little convulsive, and she reached out, unfolded the blanket and drew it across his supine form.

"I'm sorry," she repeated in a small whisper; quite pointlessly, given the circumstances, but it helped to correct something small and previously unheeded inside her mind. As she moved to stand up again, she noticed a dead rat in the corner by the door. Its whiskers and snout were beaded with blood, but she could see no immediately apparent cause of death. Gingerly, she picked it up by the tail and tossed it out into the corridor before locking the door behind her.

The cold seemed to have taken an iron hold on the stones of the cellar now. Jill, reaching the point of suffocation inside the stinking mask, ripped it off her head and flung it aside. It flopped into a corner and continued to stare at her, a crease in the rubber making the hog's face look as if it were winking at her. She couldn't tear her gaze from it.

(_Jill?_)

(_Hey, Jill?_)

"Hello? Earth to Jill," said Amanda, rapping her knuckles gently on the door that led to the cellar steps.

"What?" Jill surfaced slowly, struggling back up from the depths of the fugue. She dismissed her confusion with an effort of will and offered Amanda a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," she said, suddenly grateful for Amanda's company, "sleepless night. What can I do for you?"

"John wants to talk to you," said Amanda, still with the same guarded air about her.

"Where's Hoffman?"

"He's fucking with one of John's mechanisms; where else would he be? Asshole thinks he knows everything. So how's Matthews?" she asked, with a noticeable sneer. Jill knew very well that Amanda held little to no regard for the well-being of their prisoner. Perhaps understandably so, given their shared history, but the sentiment was still jarring.

"He's okay, but I think you need to ease up on the Demerol now - it's too strong."

"Whatever," said Amanda; a verbal shrug. "It's all we've got."

"Okay, but at least reduce the dose," said Jill, becoming frustrated. "Take it down to fifty milligrams."

"What about the benzos?" asked Amanda.

Jill reacted. "Who told you to give him those?" she said. This time, Amanda physically shrugged. "Hoffman did," she replied.

"Detective Hoffman is not the doctor here," said Jill, reining in her anger with a conscious effort, "I am. No more benzos or you're going to kill him. If Hoffman makes any more 'requests' of this kind, refer him to me, is that understood?"

"Loud and clear, ma'am," said Amanda, her voice spiced with mockery.

Jill raised a hand to her temple and pressed hard, trying to subdue the beginnings of a headache. She was still oddly protective of Amanda and was glad to have watched her drag herself out of the gutter of heroin addiction, but sometimes the young woman could be harsh and unrepentant company. Jill excused herself with a curt nod and went to find John.

He was slumped to the side in his wheelchair when she entered, trying to reach a cup of water on the instrument tray, hand opening and closing several inches short. Jill inwardly cursed Amanda for such thoughtlessness, then picked up the cup and handed it to John. She remained silent until he had swallowed several mouthfuls, then asked how he was feeling.

"As ever," said John, gnomically. He raised red-rimmed eyes to her face and favoured her with half a smile; the right side of his face, pale and doughy, was unhappily slow to respond. "Could you help me back onto the gurney, please?"

Jill hooked her arm around John's waist, supporting his weight as he levered himself out of the chair, his breath coming in short, hissing gasps. There was little for her to support, in any case; he had lost more than ten pounds in the last week, she estimated, and even for a man undoubtedly on an approach path to death, the rapidity of his decline was shocking. She felt his ribs, stark and clear beneath her palm even through the gown, and closed her eyes in anguish.

"Detective Hoffman tells me that the FBI paid you a visit last night?" breathed John after he was safely back on the gurney.

Jill finished smoothing the sheets across his chest and took a moment to scrutinise his face for any signs of emotional disturbance. John had never been the easiest of men to read, even before the cancer had seized him, but now all she could detect were the pain and exhaustion that sat upon his shoulders like a pair of vultures, waiting for him to succumb. She had no idea how much detail Hoffman would have entered into, nor what kind of subsidiary mind game he might be playing.

"I had an agent call at my apartment last night, yes," said Jill, carefully. "He wanted to know if I knew where you were."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I said no, of course. Did you really have to ask?" she added, heartsick.

"There are few obvious questions and even fewer obvious answers," said John, and now he held out a blue-white hand which trembled only a little. "He left you a card, I assume. May I see it?" Jill nodded, and wordlessly handed over the business card. John studied it carefully, both back and front, and then passed it back.

"Call him," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm curious about one thing," murmured Strahm, curling his fingers around his chin, utterly rapt. "Why? I mean, why _now_?"

He had seemed honestly surprised to hear from Jill so soon, and she could see that a portion of that surprise had been distilled into fairly understandable suspicion. There was nothing overt, and nothing that she could identify as being directed at her personally, but she nevertheless thought quickly.

"I warned you before that you underestimate John," she said, calmly. "He probably knows the FBI have become involved."

Feeling that she ought to make some kind of good faith gesture, Jill had agreed to talk at the FBI building downtown. She'd requested the privacy of Strahm's office rather than the indignity of an interview room, and when he had produced a tape recorder and set it on the desk between them, she'd caught his eye and offered a small shake of her head. Strahm had set his lips in a hard line at this refusal, but had acquiesced without comment and taken his thumb off the switch. He was now giving Jill his full attention, accompanied by a strange half-smile that she wasn't sure she could fathom.

Jill had in turn been studying her surroundings, trying to discern something of the nature of the man who'd shaped them. While it was true that she saw a few touches about the room that were evidently personal to Special Agent Strahm, none of it was so personal as to be familiar or even telling. No photographs, no gifts, nothing to indicate the presence of so much as one other human being in his personal life. She stole another fleeting glance at the ring he wore and frowned minutely.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?" he was saying. "John called you again. I need a little detail, Jill. Ideally, a lot of detail, but right now I'll settle for whatever I can get."

(_It's imperative that Special Agent Strahm believes you to be reluctant to assist me_)

"He needs medical care," said Jill, keeping her chin raised and her voice perfectly steady. "I'm the only one he feels he can trust."

_(I am reluctant, John. I don't need to fake anything)_

"This makes no sense," said Strahm, flicking a hand dismissively. "So far he's been perfectly happy to rely upon Amanda Young. Besides, you're not an oncologist. I don't see why he needs you."

"You told me to call you if John contacted me again," said Jill, her tone razor-edged. "So far I've done exactly as you requested. It's not _my_ job to psychoanalyse, is it?"

"Easy now," said Strahm, raising both hands defensively. "I'm not trying to harass you, Jill, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't keep making me feel as if that's what I'm doing."

_That's the second time in less than a week that you've been a bitch to this man_, said her subconscious, and she flinched, wishing she could find the courage to direct her bile at Hoffman - the one man who genuinely deserved it. She returned her attention to the situation at hand to see Strahm regarding her levelly, idly toying with his pen, both thoughtful and wary in equal measure.

"Do you still love John?" he said, abruptly. The question came out of far left field, and Jill reeled a little. The word 'no' was at the back of her throat even as she realised that it would be a preprogrammed lie, and a poor one at that. Most lies, she knew, suffered a little more damage with each repetition. She bit her lip and fought the urge to look away.

"Yes," she said, "if you want the simple answer. The complex one may take more time than either of us has at our disposal."

Strahm nodded sagely. "Would you lie for him?" he asked.

"Would you believe me if I said no?" she replied with a small and rueful smile.

"I'm trying to think the best of you, Jill," he said, quietly.

"Try harder," said Jill, her jaw set. Strahm dropped his gaze; a small retreat.

"Okay," he said, exhaling heavily. "This is going nowhere and it's getting late. Will you at least let me take you home?"

Strahm took Jill back to her apartment in silence, although she, for her part, took the chance to watch him out of the corner of her eye as he drove. He was as careful on the road as in everything else she'd watched him do, his manner so courteous as to verge on archaic. At the third red light, however, she tired of the quiet, turned away from the scarlet glare in the gathering drizzle and looked at him directly.

"You were married?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap. Even in the gloom she saw a small muscle twitch at the corner of Strahm's mouth, and she knew she'd hit a crucial point.

"You're good," he said, a shade bitterly, hands tightening on the wheel. "I _was_, yes. Elizabeth died six years ago, just before I joined the Bureau."

The light changed and Strahm pulled away smoothly, everything about him indicating a man under complete control. Everything, that was, besides the pallor of his knuckles and the small, unhappy knot in his brow. He kept his eyes fixed upon the road. Jill shook her head slightly but furiously, and would have gratefully bitten through her own tongue if it could have taken back her inordinately clumsy question.

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching out, tracing her fingers along his shoulder, feeling the tension there, "I shouldn't have asked that. It was stupid of me."

Strahm drew the car up outside Jill's building and pulled up on the parking brake with an impatient jerk. Only now did he turn to face her, his eyes turbulent in the darkness.

"What are you playing at?" he asked her, his tone wavering between anger and pain, both of which struck a blow at Jill that might as well have been a physical one. She was conscious, however, of the fact that her hand remained upon his shoulder, and that he had made no move to reject this contact.

"I'm not playing," she said, miserably, then drew back and wrenched the car door open, climbing out into the rain. The wind caught the shower and whipped it across her face, blinding her for a second as she recovered what little was left of her dignity and walked away. She heard the driver's door open and close behind her, and then all at once, Strahm's hand was on her shoulder, turning her around. The rain rustled down out of the endlessly foul city sky, and for long seconds it was the only sound in the world.

"I can't do this," he said, his voice rough.

"I didn't say anything," said Jill, holding his gaze. Acting on instinct, she crossed what little distance remained between them and reached up, grazing his cheek as softly as she dared. He was by now soaked with frigid rain, but she was sure that this bore only part of the blame for the shiver she felt beneath her touch.

"Jill..." he said, but the rest of his words were lost, swallowed in sudden incoherence; and then her arms were around his neck and she was biting softly at his lower lip and there was, suddenly, no more resistance left in Special Agent Strahm. He groaned softly into Jill's mouth and lifted her into his arms, pulling her out of the rain and into the shelter of the doorway. She gasped as Strahm pushed her up against the door and plunged his hands into her wet hair, but unlike Hoffman – she flinched at the comparison – his actions were born of passion rather than brutality, and she gladly gave into them and returned her own, raking her nails across the back of his neck.

"Wait, wait," said Strahm, drawing back a little and unhooking Jill's arms. "Let's get inside, huh?"

By the time the front door had slammed behind them, the storm was reaching a crescendo and lightning whip-cracked across the sky to the discordant tune of thunder. The rain lashed and twisted outside the window like a shoal of tiny fish, turning every so often to batter the glass. Jill and Strahm pulled at each other's clothing between urgent kisses, and she whimpered with delight when he leaned close and licked at her neck with unalloyed enthusiasm, then ran his hands over her trembling flesh in random, exploratory patterns and kissed his way down to her bare breasts. When he raised his head again he was grinning like a schoolboy. She smothered the grin with her mouth and pulled him to the floor, straddling him, hands pinning his shoulders.

"Not so serious now," said Jill, wryly amused at this change. Strahm laughed out loud beneath her, making them both quiver.

"Not so much," he agreed, then yelped as her nails scratched twin paths through the soft hair of his chest, leaving vivid welts in their wake. From her position astride his hips, Jill felt his cock throb against her inner thigh, and now she shifted position, one hand finding his crotch, pressing down, stroking and squeezing his growing erection through his pants. She kept her eyes on Strahm's face all the while, and heard his breathing deepen and roughen. Another snarl of thunder punctuated the ceaseless rhythm of her fingers, and then she unzipped his pants and shifted position, gliding lower still, moistening her lips before closing her mouth tenderly around the head of his cock.

Strahm convulsed, issuing a guttural, throaty sound that was far more animal than human. Jill ran her hands up his belly and continued to scratch lightly at his flesh as she ran her tongue up and down his shaft, never pausing, finding his sweetest and most sensitive spots and suckling hungrily. She felt a tell-tale shudder beneath her palms and drew back, smiling gently, taking his slippery erection from her mouth. He groaned, momentarily frustrated, but Jill moved to quiet him with a kiss that shared the subtle taste of him, then mounted him, guiding his aching length up between her thighs and into the warmth of her body.

Jill rocked back and forth, face twisted in grateful pleasure, savouring the feeling of having Strahm buried deep inside her. She flexed her thighs and began to move, riding him slowly, watching his expression as she did so. After a while, his hands found her hips and gripped her tender flesh, urging her down onto him a little harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jill gritted her teeth and moved faster, leaning close, enjoying the quivers racing up and down her spine as she worked towards a climax.

Without warning, Strahm closed his eyes and exhaled harshly, back arching, as he came. Jill cried out as his fingers tightened on her waist, and shivered pleasantly as his cock pulsed over and over inside her. He jerked his hips up once or twice in the throes of his orgasm and then, shuddering, subsided a little at a time beneath her. She sighed, catching her breath on the second try, then lowered her head and nuzzled at his chest.

"God, Jill..." said Strahm, his voice shaking, face flushed and gleaming with sweat. She moved gently, withdrawing, then moving to lie beside him on the rug. Her mouth was an inch from his ear and her fingers traced the contours of his cheek.

"Don't say anything," she told him, gently.

"But I..."

"It's okay."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Outside, lightning ripped the sky in two.


	5. Chapter 5

John was asleep when Jill returned to the plant just before dawn. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could and drew up a chair, sitting by his side, watching him carefully. His breathing was regular enough despite a tiny quaver at the apex of each inhalation, and she could see his pulse skipping beneath the paper-thin skin of his throat.

It was a harrowing vigil. John had never been a powerfully built man, but she'd watched him wither with the passage of time and the progress of the cancer, watched his graceful, nimble hands start to shake and fumble at the simplest of tasks, watched him bite back the worst of the pain when the headaches struck, each and every one a damaging brain-quake. At least now, for the time being, he lay in a cocoon of dark quietude, the only sound the sonorous click of the wall clock and the endless hiss-pause-hiss of the valve on the oxygen tank.

Strahm had left her apartment in a quiet and thoughtful mood, leaving Jill with little more than a puzzlingly chaste kiss and a sombre look. For a few seconds she'd been tempted to ask him to stay, but knew at once that it would have been the wrong thing to say. She had simply watched from the window as he drove away, waited until he turned the corner, then curled up tight on the couch and stared at the wall for some time.

She was brought back to the present by a soft cough as John turned over onto his side in his uneasy slumber, one hand wavering above the blankets as if searching. Instinctively, Jill reached out and slipped her fingers into his palm.

(_Now you don't come back_)

She stroked the back of his hand and closed her eyes at the sour memory. He wasn't the man she'd married, this hateful, hurtful stranger, but she'd stood her ground in the hope that she could recover some small fraction of what had been torn from her.

(_You do it for yourself if you can't do it for me_)

She'd come back, of course. There was no other option but that of leaving John alone with his apprentices, neither of whom she trusted enough to provide proper care for him once they'd finished sniping at one another. As if hearing this thought, John's eyes flicked open, focused on her for half a second and then drifted closed again; she suspected that he'd not even woken.

(_I lost him too..._)

No response. John had locked the door of his grief and thrown away the key. She had no access to him, within or without.

"What are you doing here?"

Her back stiffened of its own accord. Jill thought before reacting, however, letting go of John's hand and tucking it back beneath the blanket to keep him as warm as possible. Only once this was done did she turn and lay a finger across her lips.

"He needs his sleep," she hissed, "so either keep your voice down or go outside."

Without waiting for a response, she stalked past Hoffman and into the workshop, turning, her arms tightly folded. The yellow glare of the strip lights in the room cast a deep vault of shadow beneath the hood of his raincoat, and before he moved closer to Jill, all she could see of him was a faintly mocking smile. Finally, he pushed back the hood and regarded her coldly.

"I asked you what you're doing here," he said.

"What does it look like," she snapped. "I'm watching John. Where's Amanda?"

"Medication run, I assume. Who cares?"

"I do," said Jill. "God knows how long he's been left alone. Can neither of you take the slightest bit of responsibility? Damn it, Hoffman!" Her eyes flared, and she was gratified to see him take an instinctive step back in the face of her fury. He soon recovered, however, and reclaimed what ground he'd lost, adding a spark of his own.

"You didn't seem too concerned about John a few hours ago," he said, his tone drenched in acid. Jill recoiled, mouth opening in shock, trying to form a coherent comment. "What," Hoffman continued, savagely, "did you think I wasn't going to keep an eye on you? Still, I'm guessing he showed you a pretty good time. Not as good as _me_, but hey..." he spread his palms, grinning nastily.

The blow came out of nowhere, surprising Jill herself almost as much as Hoffman. She loaded it with every ounce of her anger and humiliation, delivering a ringing roundhouse slap that echoed around the room. She subsided, rubbing her stinging palm, and watched Hoffman raise a hand to his face, slowly and deliberately, every movement communicating disbelief more than anything else. Finally, he refocused on her.

"You get that one for free," he said, teeth bared.

She hit him again, and this time the action was not quite pure reflex; she felt a clear bolt of satisfaction behind it. Hoffman snapped his head to the side, and when he swung back there was an ugly red flash on his cheek and undiluted malice in his eyes. Jill took two halting steps backward and fetched up against a table. Not wanting to take her eyes from him even for a second, she reached out without looking and closed her shaking fingers around what felt like a scalpel.

"Seriously, Jill?" he said, watching the wavering blade with something like amusement in his expression, "I don't think so." He shook his head slowly. "See, that's really not the way you threaten someone. You do it like this..."

One crowded moment later, Jill was slammed down on the cold steel table on her back, breath knocked out of her, and the remainder of the instruments were still tumbling to the floor as she landed. Hoffman's hand tightened around her wrist so hard that her fingers seized up and she let go of the scalpel in shock.

"Fuck, you look good this way," he murmured, "so helpless..." and then he ducked his head and sank his teeth into the skin of her neck. She stifled a scream, refusing to the give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He laughed against her flesh and simply bit down harder. She remained silent, but her eyes flooded with tears.

"Get off me," she snarled, lashing out with her free hand, trying to claw at him, drawing on reserves of strength she'd never suspected existed. Just as he grabbed her other wrist, panting in triumph, Jill bucked and twisted beneath him, driving one knee up into his ribs as hard as she could. Her aim was true and she was rewarded with a hoarse grunt of pain. Hoffman released his grip at once, staggering back, and Jill acted on instinct. She plunged her hand beneath his arm before he could react and pulled his pistol free, swinging it up in a two-handed grip and driving it into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

Behind her, the scalpel teetered on the edge of the table and then fell, hitting the floor with a mild clatter that was now the only sound in the room. Jill held her breath. Hoffman did the same, his pupils dilated with apprehension and his hands raised. She could see several strands of her hair caught around his fingers, and the sight honed her anger to a narrow point.

"Jill...?" called John, his voice sounding weak and disoriented.

"We can stay like this all day," whispered Jill, still pressing the muzzle of the Glock into Hoffman's neck, "or you can start behaving like a human being. What's it going to be, _Detective_?" she finished, accentuating this last word with a short jab that rocked his head back. He met her gaze at last, signalling surrender as quietly as possible, and Jill nodded shortly. She dropped her arms and turned the gun around, handing it back to him. She watched the fear leak from his face to be replaced by the glacial calm he habitually wore, but he holstered the weapon without speaking and merely watched her walk away.

"What's wrong?" she said, pushing through the plastic strips. What she saw twisted the cold knife in her heart a little more. John was curled on his side, arms wrapped around his head like a small child, keening in pain. Jill crossed to the medicine cabinet and rooted urgently amongst the boxes on the lowest shelf, pulling out the one she sought.

"Not the morphine," croaked John, though his eyes were still creased in agony and she doubted he could even see anything properly.

"John, it's all that's going to work right now. Look at you," she pleaded, still clutching the box of ampoules.

"Have...to stay focused," he said, his breath rasping. Jill dropped her gaze for a moment, but then shook her head firmly and reached for a clean hypodermic.

"I'm sorry," she said, drawing off a measure of the liquid and tapping her fingers on the syringe to clear any air bubbles, suddenly all clinical efficiency, "but I can't leave you like this. You're going to do as you're told for once in your life." She checked the dose and took John's arm, locating a vein with little difficulty and sliding the needle into it. He winced – Jill was aware that the chemotherapy had led to hypersensitivity, and that this made any injection a short but excruciating ordeal – but then it was over, and she was withdrawing it once more and drawing the blankets up to his chin as the opiate trickled through his system. She set the hypo aside and stroked his cheek as his eyes began to glaze over.

"Better?" she asked. Even as she said it, she knew the word was without relevance. There would be no 'better' for John. Still, she stood and watched in silence as his breathing eased up and his eyelids sagged, and she remained with him until she was sure he was lost to consciousness once more. As a precaution, she clipped a heart rate monitor to his finger and switched it on before leaving the room.

Hoffman was standing just where she'd left him, his eyes narrow and watchful. Jill thought she could see a flicker of respect in there, but if so, it was grudging. "How's he doing?" he asked, nodding at the sickroom.

Jill paused and swept her hair out of her eyes. "He should be out for a few hours, so I'm going home to get some sleep. This time you're going to stay with him," she added, her tone warning.

"I'm sorry," said Hoffman quietly, as she walked past him on the way to the door. This pulled her up sharp, and she turned over her shoulder, her brows knitting.

"For what?" she asked. _Does it matter, _she thought. _Have you ever used those words and meant them, Hoffman? Have you?_

"Forget it," he said, turning away, eyes closing momentarily. Jill's mouth twisted, but she said nothing. She pushed the door back and walked down the corridor, head down, pulling her sweater around her in the sudden chill.

The open air, tainted though it was with the faint stink of the nearby harbour, was refreshing. Jill stood at the top of the steps and looked around at the empty warehouses, their windows now glazed with sullen fire as they were painted by the rising sun. She raised her face to the dawn and watched the clouds sail by overhead in long, ragged skeins, then sighed and walked down the steps.

She didn't notice the attentive figure watching her from a nearby car.


	6. Chapter 6

In the end, Jill found herself unable to sleep in spite of her aching need to do so, and headed for the one place to which she almost always defaulted.

The cemetery was innocent of any other life save for a plump city pigeon, which sat on a nearby headstone and bobbed its head at her, occasionally feathering its wings. There was a marble seat opposite Gideon's grave; John had paid for it himself. This was where she now sat, hands cupping her elbows, shivering now and then despite the growing warmth of the morning sun. There being no Kramer family plot, Gideon had been interred amongst many other children, and as Jill turned her head she could see row upon row of similarly small stones, all adorned with bright plastic windmills, teddy bears, china figurines and other tokens.

All, that was, except Gideon's. The plain granite stone was etched with nothing more than his name, an infinity symbol and four animals: eagle, bear, elephant and lion. These, too, had been chosen by John, and he had never elected to reveal their deeper significance or to allow Jill to further brighten the small grave. At each step of the way, Jill had felt herself excluded from mourning for her child, as if only his father could possibly be grieving in any real way, as if the fact that their son had lived and died inside her should have been more than enough.

_As if you were responsible for his death?_

A young couple walked past her on the narrow pathway. She raised her head and smiled as best she could, but something about her expression caused the pair to drop their gaze apologetically and hurry onward, and all at once Jill felt colder than ever before, and painfully guilty; she had no business smiling at anyone whilst sat by the grave of her son.

There were more footsteps on the path, but this time Jill simply hung her head and studied her folded hands in minute detail, waiting for the unseen walker to pass her by. The crunching of gravel ceased, and after a few hesitant seconds, someone sat down beside her on the bench with a heavy sigh.

"I know I shouldn't have come here," said Strahm, "but I didn't know where else to find you."

Jill raised her head, glad to see him, but at one and the same time she felt another thorn of guilt pierce her heart at the happy sentiment, in this of all places. "It's all right," she said. "Really, it is," she insisted, addressing the sober look in his eyes and reaching out to take his hand. His skin felt cold and smooth, as if he'd been walking in the open air for some time.

"This is a big place," said Strahm, as if he'd read her mind. "I've been looking for a while. It's pretty, though," he added, looking around.

"Peter," she said, trying to get past his obvious reluctance to speak his mind, "what's wrong? Whatever it is, I'd prefer if you told me."

He smiled. It was seasoned with sadness but it was, nonetheless, a smile – and then he leaned in unexpectedly and kissed her, one hand resting soft on the back of her neck. Jill closed her eyes and stayed as still as she could, her attention focused for the moment on nothing but that connection, that warmth, and the gentle pound of his heartbeat against her breast. Eventually, and with reluctance, Strahm drew back and regarded her evenly.

"Here it is," he said. "There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't let this happen, but I think I can make peace with them all if you just tell me one thing: that I'm not getting in the way of something," he finished, and now that still, hesitant expression was back, falling across his face like cloud-shadow.

"What do you mean?" asked Jill, although she already had her suspicions.

Strahm frowned and lifted her hand, touching her wrist, tracing the blue-black bruise that had bloomed there. "I mean _this_," he said, then he let go of her arm and reached out, pressing his fingertips to the livid bite on her neck, "and I mean _this_, Jill. If I'm making things worse for you, I want you to tell me now and I'll walk away."

"You're not making anything worse," she said, struggling to raise her voice above a whisper.

"Who did this to you?" Jill tried to look down, look away, but he lifted her chin inexorably and refused to allow her quarter. "If I can help...?"

"What's done is done and it's taken care of. There's nothing you can do now."

"Is that the truth?"

"Are you _ever_ going to believe me?" said Jill brokenly, taking his head between her hands, pressing her lips to his cheek, brushing the cool stubble there, planting small, desperate kisses across his mouth, breathing in every last trace of his scent before burying her head in the hollow of his shoulder and sagging, every muscle going limp. She felt him touch her hair, almost reverently.

"I believe you," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss into the top of her head. "Come on. Let's get you home."

Jill stood up, slipping her hands into her pockets, and only then remembered what she'd come here to do. Her fingers closed on a small, cool object and she pulled it free, holding it up in the wash of the sun where it gleamed as if newborn. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Strahm watching her curiously, but she bent and placed the tiny Chinese warrior figurine on Gideon's headstone with infinite care, setting it straight, turning it to face the dawn. Only when it was arranged to her satisfaction did she stand back, her smile shining seraphic even through a fine veil of tears.

She turned away at last, stepped into Strahm's embrace and watched from the warmth of his arms as the pigeon took flight, wings applauding the sky.

* * *

A small creak intruded upon the breathless silence at the rear of the packing plant. The door inched outward, letting in a small slice of weak sunlight, then a hooded figure sidled through the gap and closed it. The resultant breeze stirred months of dust into tiny eddies across the filthy floor, and the figure waited for this to dissipate before making its way down the dark corridor. It walked with a limp, although this disability was not, perhaps, quite so severe as to warrant the ebony cane it carried, and which clicked gently and steadily along the floor to mark its owner's progress.

Less than a dozen paces later, this accessory proved its mettle as the figure pulled up sharp and tapped the point of the cane against a fine steel tripwire a few inches from the floor, the action less experimental than it was thoughtful; and indeed, the wire vibrated but held. The hood tilted up as hidden eyes studied the row of loaded shotguns strapped to a rack on the ceiling, and then it snorted derisively. "_No initiative,_" it whispered to itself, sounding moderately amused, then stepped carefully over the wire and moved on.

A bend in the passage brought the figure out beneath a security camera, and it once again glanced up, gazing at the red power light as the camera finished one arc and began to swing back. Waiting, patiently judging the camera's field of vision, it eventually nodded and ducked around the corner, head held low.

One right-and-left later it pulled aside a plain door in the wall and found itself looking down at John Kramer, clearly deeply asleep with one hand curled, childlike, beneath his cheek. The light in the room was low, blue-toned and melancholy, in counterpoint to the businesslike beep of the heart monitor.

Gordon drew back the cowl in order to see a little better in the dimness, frowned briefly at John's unconscious form and then stepped over to the counter beneath the medicine cabinet to examine the empty ampoule he'd spotted. His brow creased further still and he glanced back at John.

"John?" he said, quietly, moving back to the gurney and patting the man's face gently, trying to rouse him. "Come on, old boy, you haven't had _that_ much. Rise and shine."

(_Dr. Gordon...this is your wake up call_)

Far too close a comparison for comfort. Gordon shook his head savagely to clear the memory and continued, shaking John's shoulder instead.

The strident clash of steel upon steel interrupted his efforts for a moment, and he moved with surprising agility and all due secrecy to the door, which was one quarter ajar. Through the gap he could see Hoffman, back turned and shoulders hunched, working on some apparatus or other beneath the white glare of an anglepoise lamp. Gordon's curiosity was piqued as he watched the detective reach out for another tool; the knuckles of that hand were stained with fresh blood. Whether his own or someone else's, Gordon couldn't tell.

"Lawrence," muttered John, his voice strained and weary, but still commanding for all that; it carried even over the noise from the workshop. Gordon hobbled back to the gurney and looked down at his patient with concern.

"I thought we'd talked about morphine," he said, keeping his voice low and level. "Last resort and all that, eh?"

"Jill insisted," said John, smiling weakly. "She meant it for the best. Where is she?" he asked, and now the smile slipped a notch as Gordon looked away briefly, clearing his throat.

"She met with Special Agent Strahm again...at the cemetery," said Gordon, his gaze still averted. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, John tapped his arm meaningfully.

"And?"

"I think she's getting a little closer than you intended," breathed Gordon, the words tumbling out as if in a terrible hurry. "I'm sorry." He watched as John waved one trembling hand, dismissing this as an irrelevancy, although something at the back of his eyes carried a different truth.

"She's not under any suspicion?" he asked, staring past Gordon.

"No, I don't believe so." He paused, and licked his lips nervously before continuing. "Listen, John, I don't think this is getting us anywhere."

"You think your time could be better spent?" said John, sharply.

"I'm happy to look out for Jill and you know it – I just don't think it's right to use her as bait, for Christ's sake..."

"If you want to walk away, I've no more claim over you than you allow. I can't stop you. Look at me, I'm an invalid."

"So am I, remember?" Gordon retorted, casting a meaningful nod downward.

"We both gained from it."

The cacophony from the workshop ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a short litany of gruff curses from Hoffman and the clatter of some instrument as it was hurled aside, and the doctor looked warily over his shoulder for a second, hand tightening around the handle of his cane. "I'd better be going," he said, pitching his voice even lower than before. "Will you be all right?"

"You of all people should know the futility of that question, Doctor," said John, and now his pale eyes, no longer fogged with either pain or sedation, cut Gordon to the quick.

"I only meant –" he began, but John was already turning over onto his side, signalling an end to the conversation. Gordon's cheek tightened in frustration, but then he hauled back on his anger and swung around, stalking out of the room the way he'd come. He pushed the hidden door shut behind him as quietly as he could, then limped away, his cane tap-tapping into the sickly gloom.


	7. Chapter 7

"She was murdered," said Strahm, softly, out of the blue.

He had taken Jill home, escorting her up to her apartment and into the bedroom. There he had acted no less than the perfect gentleman, taking off her shoes for her and putting her to bed. He now sat at the foot of the bed with her bare feet in his lap, stroking them now and again, running warm hands over her skin while apparently deep in thought.

Jill, who had been on the point of dozing off to his gentle ministrations, opened her eyes and looked up, propping herself on one elbow. Strahm was looking at her with dark and wary eyes, as if waiting for a response he knew he wouldn't want to hear.

"Your wife?" she asked, carefully. He nodded. "Everyone asks, sooner or later," he told her. "These days, I tend to save people the time."

"I wasn't going to ask," said Jill, sitting upright now.

"You were, and that's okay, but not many people are tactful enough to say that, so thank you."

Strahm turned away for a few seconds, taking time to muster his thoughts, and she studied his profile in silence. When he returned his attention to her he was quietly taking off his jacket and tie and lying beside her on the bed, on his back, gazing at the ceiling. She settled back down and laid her arm across his chest, feeling each measured breath he took. Eventually, he began to speak.

Slowly, pausing now and then to frame his words as carefully as he could, he told her that he'd been away at Quantico when it happened. Elizabeth had been caught up in a gas station robbery near their home in Bethesda, and had tried to run for her car. One of the robbers had shot her in the back and left her for dead. His captain had put in a priority call and Strahm had punched through every last red light on the way home, but to no avail. Elizabeth had died less than fifteen minutes before he got to the hospital. Two days before what should have been their fifth anniversary, she had been buried wearing the gold dragonfly necklace he'd intended for a gift.

A few weeks after the funeral, fleeing the memories of their suddenly very empty home, he'd put in for a transfer.

"You don't have to say anything," he said at last, rolling over onto his side to look at her. Jill, who had been wondering if there were words enough, laid a palm against his chest and slipped her fingers into the open neck of his shirt, where she felt a racing that belied his eerily composed demeanour.

"Were they caught?" she asked, quietly.

"One got life, the other plea bargained down to five years," he told her.

"Not enough," she said. Jill swallowed deeply and felt her heart hurt. All at once it was clear that the man before her had spent six years trying to deal with his loss alone, chiefly by burying it beneath his duty to the law, the way she had buried her own in many late nights at the clinic. It was no solution, but it kept her from wondering why her entire world – and, so it seemed, that of everyone around her – turned upon the axle of violent death.

"Has there been anyone else since?" He hesitated, then gave a tiny shake of his head. "Nobody?" she asked, sadly, and she saw that this admission had cost him.

"No," he said.

"I'm sorry," said Jill. She'd meant to speak from the heart, had been nothing but serious, but she was puzzled to see Strahm's eyes crinkle with sudden amusement. He bit back a laugh and took her hand in his, kissing it artlessly.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "We have _got_ to stop apologising to each other."

"Are you okay?" she said, despite the fact that his odd humour was infectious and she struggled to contain her own in response.

"I'm fine," he insisted, his hand gliding up her arm, stroking her shoulder, tracing a soft, ticklish path down her ribs and over the swell of her hip. She responded in kind, fingers curling into the soft hair at the back of his neck, and then hooked her leg over his waist, drawing him closer. Strahm exhaled, shifting position, sliding between her thighs and moving above her. For a second his mouth was in the hollow of her neck and brushing across the mark left by the cruel bite that Hoffman had dealt her, and she flickered uncertainly; but then he pushed himself up and gazed down at her.

"You're so beautiful," he said, softly, with an endearingly crooked smile, then ducked his head again. Jill felt his teeth tug at the fabric of her shirt and then, somehow, her top button was undone. Another tug, and the second popped open.

"Wow," she said, laughing. Strahm looked up again, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, that? Just my old party trick," he said, modestly.

"Looks like I missed some pretty wild parties."

"Hey," he said, ducking to attend to yet another button, his warm breath fanning her bare skin as he did so, "I wasn't always a cop..." His breathing slowed, muffled for a moment in the depths of her cleavage. Now he licked and kissed his way down her body as her muscles tensed and fluttered beneath each slow, lingering contact. Jill lay back, turning her head to one side, eyes closing. Her lips parted a little and she whispered his name, her breath catching.

Strahm paused in his attentions as he unzipped her skirt, sliding it down over her hips, then splayed his fingers over the fine satin of her underwear and stroked the heat of her soft pubic mound. Jill gasped and held still, heart leaping up against her ribs, but he turned his head aside instead, running the tip of his tongue up her tender thigh before nipping ever so lightly at the silken flesh there. This exquisite tease caused her to loose a frustrated moan, and Strahm glanced up at her from the valley between her quivering thighs, grinning. Finally he relented, hooking his fingers beneath the lacy band of her panties and drawing them down.

Jill drew in a heaving breath, her eyes rolling back in her head, as Strahm slid his tongue into her pussy, the sudden heat sending delicious flickers of electricity to her extremities. She growled low in the back of her throat and raised her hips from the bed. He murmured something indefinable and lapped at her clit again and again, probing and circling it with a firm and relentless rhythm that soon had her bucking and writhing helplessly, filling the room with hoarse, ragged cries of pleasure.

Now she felt his hands beneath her buttocks, kneading and squeezing the smooth skin and lifting her from the bed quite effortlessly, bringing her aching cunt closer to his mouth. She gave in gladly, parting her thighs even wider to afford him as much access as he needed. As she did so, he looked up at her, watching her expression, and the fierce concentration in his eyes left her shuddering. She sensed the very edge of a climax and pushed toward it.

"_That's_..._oh_..." she managed to stutter just before every muscle in her body went into lockdown, her hands clutching at the sheets, her skin speckled with seed pearls of vibrant sweat and her juices flowing like water. Strahm thrust his tongue into her over and over again as she thrashed, her orgasm obliterating every last rational sensation. Dimly, Jill felt his hands on the soft span of her belly, not restraining but assisting her, and then with one last convulsive quake she was done, and sagging into a gasping, twitching pile of exhausted joy.

The bed creaked as Strahm stripped off the rest of his clothes and then lay down beside her, taking her in his arms and rocking her for a moment. Jill squirmed a little closer and felt his hardness pressed against her thigh. She offered him a silent, questioning look but he shook his head gently and kissed her damp forehead.

"Another time," he said. "I'm okay. You should get some sleep." He reached across and drew the sheets over them both. Jill, already half asleep, traced drowsy fingers across his chest in a careless spiral pattern.

"You'll stay?" she whispered.

"Of course."

As Jill's breathing settled into a deeper, more contented rhythm, Strahm's cell phone pinged softly on the night stand. Moving slowly, loath to disturb her, he stretched out his free arm and fetched it, flipping it open one handed. As he read the new message, however, the peaceful smile slipped away from his face.

* * *

Even with the condensers switched off, the freezer room was still achingly cold.

Hoffman reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of fleece-lined leather gloves, drawing them on with an idle tug, his eyes tracking over the steel framework in front of him. Six spray nozzles on each side were connected to rubber-sheathed copper pipes that led directly to the main water supply. Two lengths of chain depended from the top bar, a padlock hanging from an open hasp on the lowest link. It was to this padlock that Hoffman turned his attention, reaching up to retrieve the key, which he dropped into his pocket for the time being.

The coolant pipes on the far wall were currently empty, but he nevertheless gave them an investigative tap with the point of the key to make sure that the system wasn't charged. Apparently satisfied that it was safe to proceed, he leaned in closer, sliding his arm between the pipes to test the depth of the alcove. He stretched and closed his gloved fingers around the chain at the back, but just as he did so, his cheek made contact with the surface of the nearest pipe. Whilst not freezing, it was cold enough for all that, and he swore, jerked back reflexively, and rubbed at the sting with the back his hand. He debated trying again, but the test had served its purpose; standing a couple of inches taller than the subject, Hoffman knew that his own reach would likely be just a little longer. The distance was right.

A distant clatter from further down the corridor outside startled him, but only momentarily. Without the sedatives, Eric Matthews was now prone to raising hell at odd moments whether or not he thought there was anyone there to hear him. By the sound of things, he'd just flung his food tray at the door and was now screaming something about...bugs? This was followed by a rain of generalised invective, at which point Hoffman lost interest, scowled, and returned his attention to the chains on the trap. He'd already had to subdue Matthews once earlier when he'd opened the door to check on him – he flexed his swollen knuckles with some degree of regret – and had no intention of returning to the cell in the near future without a very good reason. It had come as something of a shock to find out just how much fight there was in an emaciated, weakened man with only one good leg.

He didn't hear the door open a fraction wider; the modest sound behind him was drowned out by the continuing yells from the cell. Soft footsteps were in turn masked by the clink of the chains as he adjusted their length.

Hoffman remained entirely unaware of the intruder until the point of a knife pricked the skin at the back of his neck.


	8. Chapter 8

Suddenly, the world was all pinpoint detail.

Hoffman kept his gaze front and centre and his hands just where they were, fixed around the metalwork. He watched a droplet of water form on the chilly surface, watched it grow heavy, shining senselessly, and then fall. The knife pressed against his neck was angled, and now the cutting edge itself fetched up against his skin.

"Either cut me or find something else to do," he growled. "I'm busy."

"Fucking prick," was the response, but despite the words, the tone was clearly amused.

Amanda adopted a lazy grin, looking Hoffman up and down as he rounded on her. She lowered her arm and stuck the knife in the back of her belt. Even in the muted light she could see from the slight flutter at his throat that his pulse was only just starting to slow; she was honestly impressed by the show of bravado he'd put up in spite of the apparent threat, but damned if she'd let it be known. Her bare arms prickled with goosebumps in the chill of the room, but she ignored this and raised her chin at the piping behind him.

"How's the water pressure?" she asked. "I found a few leaks last night."

"I know. They're fixed. It's fine." he said, his words clipped and vaguely distracted. Amanda returned her attention to his face, however, and saw that his eyes were tracing her up and down with what she could only assign to outright prurience. Eventually, he seemed to realise he'd been caught in the act and his mouth curled into the familiar smirk.

"So why are you still screwing with it?" she asked, stepping around him and circling the apparatus, running her hands over the connectors, feigning absorbed curiosity. Hoffman didn't move, but his head turned, owl-like, to follow her. She spared him a glance and saw that his gaze was still simmering.

The question had been largely rhetorical. Amanda herself was prey to much the same malady: frustration. It had been a long time since the last series of tests – time filled with little besides running errands, feeding the prisoner, watching John deteriorate and sparring with Hoffman as if they were a pair of alley cats. Most of all, she'd watched the detective at every available opportunity, and was surprised to discover, of late, that there were hints of something else, something unexpected, mired in the hatred she'd been carefully cultivating. Rivalry was one thing, but this was–

"What?" he was asking her. Amanda's lip twitched and she became aware that she'd been staring back. She hissed a short sigh between her teeth and jerked her gaze away, raising it to the restraints.

"They're too short now," she said, curtly. "I told you to leave it alone, didn't I?"

He gave her a look which had _shut your fucking mouth_ written all over it in letters of blood, but instead, he said: "They're long enough. Try for yourself if you don't believe me."

"Fine," she snapped, stepping into the middle of the device and raising her arms to take hold of the lowest links. She winced slightly as she felt the cold steel slide over her skin, but gamely raised herself onto her toes and wrapped the chains around her wrists, tugging on them.

Hoffman moved so casually that she didn't spot his intention until it was too late; but with a spasm in her gut she heard the padlock snap closed and he was stepping back again and she was curling her fingers into the links like claws, every jerk raising her feet from the floor, trying in vain to slip her wrists from the chains. It was of no use. She'd watched him tie and shackle more than enough test subjects to be left in any doubt as to his talent for it.

"Let me out," she said, keeping her voice low and even. He didn't even offer her the courtesy of a head-shake; he merely blinked once, slowly and deliberately, his quiet mockery all the louder for the turbid silence.

"Let me out," Amanda repeated, and this time her voice cracked a little but she pushed through, driving her head forward to spit her words at Hoffman as hard as she could. "You god-damned rat bastard bottom feeding shit-eating cock-sucking son of a bitch _let me out right now or I'll make you eat your fucking balls!_"

This last fevered scream rattled the pipes along the wall and reverberated down the corridor outside. Dimly, she heard Matthews cease his hectoring in response to her own, and Hoffman took a moment to turn around and pull the door closed, the latch clicking with frightening finality. When he turned back, his face twisted, drawing into horizontal lines, all at once the very picture of ill intent. Amanda's heart skittered and she drew back as far as she could within the restraint of the chains, arching her body in a futile, animal effort to be away from him.

As he approached, she tilted her head back, but he curled one chilly, gloved hand around the back of her neck and clamped the other over her mouth. She snorted several quick, panicky breaths through her nose and thrashed weakly, but the lack of adequate purchase on the floor meant that all she achieved was to thrust her hips against him, and she felt his cock stir slightly in response to her frantic struggles. His breathing became harsher, and Amanda felt each exhalation brush her face, the only source of warmth in that refrigerator of a room. For several seconds his iron grip on her head tightened until she saw white light flare in the corners of her vision, and then he removed his hand from her mouth.

In spite of her fear, Amanda's reflexes took over at that point and she snapped her head forward, catching Hoffman on the bridge of the nose with what little strength she could summon from such an awkward position. He grunted – more in annoyance than in pain, she thought – and reared back, and she watched with wide eyes as a fine crimson streak burst from one nostril. He didn't react to this, didn't take his eyes from hers, he simply ran out his tongue and licked some of the blood from his upper lip as if it were a matter of little relevance.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked her, his voice dull. His eyes were glittering savagely, and then he reached behind her back and withdrew the knife from her belt. He brought it up and turned the blade to and fro between them, the steel casting quivering, darting flashes of light across her eyes.

"No..." she yelped, and Hoffman tilted his head at her, questioning. "'What?" he asked, his tone now terrifyingly civil. "You _didn't_ enjoy it? Come on. Take pride in your achievements, Amanda. I'm disappointed in you. You drew first blood and you should be grateful for that, but now it's _my_ turn..."

With this, he laid the edge of the blade along the side of her neck, applying just enough pressure to keep her still and freeze her last breath half taken. He leaned in close and inhaled deeply, nuzzling at her cold flesh, smearing his own blood across her cheek like war-paint. She struggled listlessly once more and whined softly into his ear.

He laughed, and to Amanda's horror it was a musical, pleasant laugh, laced with what sounded like genuine good humour, and it was all the more disturbing for that. The blade turned, traced a lazy zig-zag path down her throat, and then plunged. She quailed, but the point of the knife lodged in the V of her t-shirt instead of her shrinking flesh. Hoffman's hand tightened on her neck as he sought more leverage, then dragged the blade down in a series of vicious jerks, slicing through the thin cotton. She squeezed her eyes shut as he ripped and cut the rest of her clothes away from her, panting like a bull from his efforts.

When she was stripped to his satisfaction, he stepped back to study her for a moment. Amanda saw that he still held her shredded panties in one hand, and he raised them to his face briefly, inhaling her still-warm scent, his lip curling with filthy pleasure. Then, dropping the violated garment, he closed in once more.

She was quaking and partly numb from the cold now, and even under the circumstances she was grateful for his proximity and the warmth he radiated. She felt his hands low on her body, felt the cold leather of his glove between her shuddering legs, felt his fingers probe inside her for a second, and she twitched in her chains like a fish on a line as his fingertip grazed her clitoris, his touch insouciant. Then he was gone, stroking his palms delicately up her body, cupping her breasts for a second before caressing her throat.

Amanda felt the urge to flinch from his touch, but this time she ignored it. Her pulse had slowed and was now almost lethargic, and each breath poured in and out of her lungs as if fluid. She twitched one side of her mouth in the ghost of a smile as Hoffman hooked his hands into the collar of his own shirt and ripped at it, tearing off the buttons. In spite of the chill, she saw that his flesh was glazed with a fresh patina of sweat that glistened in the tawny hair between his nipples. He moved closer still, close enough for her to smell the salt on his skin. It was intoxicating, and she licked her lips.

"Bite," he said, the word no more than a tremor in the air between his lips and her ear.

"What?" she muttered from the depths of her sudden delirium, thinking that she'd misheard him.

"I said, bite," he repeated, quietly.

Saying no more, he merely unbuckled his belt and freed his erection. Amanda sucked in a rasping, jagged breath as he lifted her without apparent effort, pushing between her thighs and making contact. She twisted gently, assisting him now, wrapping her legs around his waist and locking her ankles in the small of his back. Only then did she look him in the eyes, and what she saw there sent the iciest of erotic chills down her back. Hoffman's gaze was cool, detached and – she now understood – quite unhinged. She parted her lips to say something, but then he leaned in and forced his cock into her and she cried out, overwhelmed.

"I knew I'd make you scream sooner or later," he panted, his voice coarse, as he began to thrust into her. "I told you to bite me, you dirty little bitch. _Do it!_"

She obeyed blindly, ducking her head and clamping her mouth onto his shoulder, her teeth raking skin and muscle. She tasted the fresh blood welling up, pouring over her tongue and sliding down her throat. Hoffman shuddered violently against her but did not break his rhythm or his silence, and Amanda shrieked as he skewered her even harder and faster, fingers digging into her thighs with bruising strength. The chains were now cutting into her wrists like razor wire and her hands were aching from the loss of circulation, but she couldn't bring herself to care about the discomfort; she was focused solely on the exquisite agony between her thighs. She felt something thick and sticky trickling out of her and suspected that she was probably bleeding by now, but this, too, was secondary to her building climax.

"I'm going to make you come so hard you lose your fucking mind," snarled Hoffman. Amanda did not doubt it for one moment. She was squirming frenziedly, every muscle in her pelvis bunched and trembling.

"_Don't...stop_..." she begged. Her head rolled to one side, her eyes glazed over and she began to sob hoarsely, exhausted and aching now but unwilling to relinquish the beautiful hell-fire in her loins and the feeling of Hoffman's tongue on her exposed throat. He seized a fistful of her hair and pulled as hard as he could, and in the wake of this searing pain her orgasm hit her like a speeding train.

Several brutal thrusts later, Hoffman joined her. Amanda's cunt was still convulsing from the fury of her own peak, and now he erupted inside her with a rough gasp, his semen quickly overflowing and mingling with her blood, the hot fluid running down her thighs and between her buttocks.

For long moments, the only sound in the room was a harsh, discordant panting as they both recovered their breath. Amanda, her mind still operating on base instinct, tightened her legs around Hoffman's waist, loath to release him, not wanting that inevitable feeling of loss that always came afterwards. However, now the climactic shiver was subsiding her other nerves were making themselves felt with increasing vehemence; she was starting to shiver from the cold once more, her scalp was stinging, her pussy was raw and she knew her wrists and shoulders would suffer later. She unhooked her ankles and let him go, closing her eyes as he withdrew from her abruptly.

Moments later she heard the scratch of a key in a lock, and then the chains slipped from around her wrists, and then – quite without warning – she passed out.


	9. Chapter 9

Perez flipped open the blinds on the window and looked down at the street below. The FBI building lay at a busy and utterly charmless intersection given to regular traffic snarls and the view was scarcely inspiring, but she was, in any case, looking inward rather than out, and her gaze was unfocused. She turned over her shoulder briefly, casting a nervous look at the open door of her office, then turned back to the dismal view.

"You're out of line," said Strahm, from behind her. He hadn't raised his voice and there was no particular inflection in his words other than a mote of disappointment. She waited until she heard him close the door of the office and then turned around, keeping her expression carefully neutral. After a pause for thought she unfolded her arms, not wanting to appear defensive.

"No," she told him, "I _would_ have been out of line if I'd gone to Erickson." She faced him down and sighed. "What I said was between friends, not partners. We are still friends, aren't we?"

"I hope so," he said, soberly, "or I may have wasted my time getting you this," and he set a steaming coffee on the desk between them. Perez hesitated for some seconds and then relented silently, picking up the modest peace offering as her partner visibly composed himself.

"I'd really like a chance to explain," he said, eventually.

"Of course," said Perez, nodding.

"There's nothing going on between me and Jill Tuck," said Strahm, sitting down heavily behind his desk. She watched him lean back and run his palms down his face as if profoundly exhausted; and, indeed, there _were_ subtle shadows in his eyes. In fact, as she studied him at length, she noticed another small discrepancy between this man and the Peter Strahm she'd known for five years now: usually forthright to the point of character flaw, today he seemed unable to meet her gaze.

"I never said there was."

"You implied it," he said.

"I didn't do that either," she insisted gently, walking over and perching on the corner of his desk. "What worries me is how it looks, especially since you're cutting me out."

"I just thought this needed careful handling," he said. Perez put down her coffee and looked at him sadly.

"We can do that," she said, nodding agreeably. "We can handle this as carefully as you want and I'll follow your lead if it makes you happy, but we handle it _here_, in the _interview room_, on the _record_ and by the _book_," she said, punctuating her emphases with soft beats on the desk blotter. "What's happened to you lately? I learned all this from you, remember?"

"I really don't know," he told her. "It's this case. I don't know where to go from here, and that's the truth of it."

Privately, Perez was more than a little shocked at this. She had never before heard him admit to anything less than consummate confidence in his own abilities and methods. If anything, he had occasionally to be dissuaded from a habitually bullish approach, prompted by a temper she knew to be slow to rouse but tough to subdue. She tilted her head at him.

"You follow procedure, talk to the witnesses, collect the evidence. That's all anyone expects of you," she said. "You could also be a little more cooperative," she added, calmly. "Work _with_ Detective Hoffman, not against him. You didn't have to play the alpha wolf at the crime scene, you know."

"That's not what –" Strahm began, but Perez cut him off. "Oh please," she retorted, "I could barely breathe for the testosterone in that room!" She smiled good-naturedly as she said this, however. "Look," she went on, earnestly, "he's a good officer and he can help us. Try to play a little nicer, huh? For me?"

For a second, she swore that Strahm's expression became analytical, his eyes narrowing fractionally and the smallest of furrows denting his brow. Then he raised his hands in mock surrender and the moment passed. "All right, I'll try," he conceded. He looked at her doubtful expression. "Really, I will," he insisted. She nodded amicably.

"All I ask is that we communicate," said Perez. "A little give and take. I'm not asking a lot, am I? Anyway, we'll talk a little more later if you like. Meanwhile," she went on, glancing at her watch and sobering up, "I think you should report to Erickson before he comes looking for you, because the last time I saw him he did _not_ look happy."

"Not the best news, but okay," said Strahm, hauling himself out of the chair. He paused at the door, however, and gave her a backward glance. "By the way...thanks," he said quietly, and left before she could acknowledge this.

Perez stood quite still until his footsteps had died away entirely, and then she moved over to her screen, opened her e-mail inbox and deleted Hoffman's message.

* * *

(_Don't move_)

(_I've got you, shhh now_)

The echoes faded and pain jabbed her awake.

Amanda rolled over, groaning faintly, and sat up as quickly as her spinning head would allow. Her eyes were bleary, sticky, and she blinked once or twice, furiously, before rubbing at them with the knuckle of one hand. Finally, she looked down and around.

Against all expectation, she'd not only been put to bed on her cot dressed in a clean hospital gown but also meticulously cleaned up beforehand, the smears of blood wiped from her face and lips and her various scratches washed down with surgical alcohol; she could still smell it and feel the cold sting upon her, so she realised she had not been unconscious for too long. She glanced to the left and saw her tin box on the night stand, the bottle and swabs removed and arrayed beside it. Her stomach turned over with humiliation; she had no idea that anyone else knew about the box and its contents, let alone Hoffman. She stretched out a shivering hand and lifted the lid. Her knife had been returned.

Clutching one hand to her mouth to stifle a brief twitch of nausea, Amanda hauled herself out of bed and stood upright on the second try. Moving slowly and carefully, she pulled off the gown and hunted in her trunk for some clean clothing, trying to ignore the memory of what had befallen the clothes she'd been wearing earlier. Her throat convulsed with shame as she located her boots beneath the bed and pulled them on, her movements mechanical and her eyes bleak. A warm tear escaped from her eye and she batted it away with an absent swipe of her fingers.

(_You've only yourself to blame_)

Her hands froze in the middle of tying her laces, and for a second, Amanda was a study in stillness as she probed her hazy recollection. It was Hoffman's voice, she was sure of it, infused with oddly dissociated sorrow. She suddenly recalled his hands on her face and shoulders, curiously solicitous, and the way he'd gathered her into his arms with insolent ease, lifting her as her head lolled back over the crook of his elbow. Even as she'd battled unconsciousness, she had reached out to touch his bare skin, idle fingers brushing the fresh wound she'd inflicted.

(_See what happens when you fight me?_)

But she hadn't fought him, had she? Not in the end. Amanda beat one small fist against her head, but instead of shaking the memory loose it triggered some kind of short circuit, and the connection was broken, the fractured picture of Hoffman's regretful gaze flaring and fading from her mind. She finished lacing her boots with a pinched, unhappy frown and walked out into the workshop.

The place was in chaos, as it frequently was. Hoffman was meticulous when he had nothing else on his mind, but from the look of the benches he'd lately suffered a particularly colourful fit of pique. She picked a shard of glass off a nearby table and noticed that the bulb in the lamp was smashed. Wrinkling her nose at the devastation, she resolved to clean it up later, but right now there was work to be done.

Reaching beneath the nearest workbench, she pulled out a gleaming double-barrel shotgun and cracked the breech in a businesslike manner. She verified first that it was unloaded, as she'd been taught, then lifted the weapon and blew gently down the barrels. Finally she jacked the breech shut once more and tested the triggers, one after the other, and nodded as she heard both firing pins click. Then, picking up a box of shells as well, she left the room.

The Rack was a fearsome piece of machinery, and one of the few that genuinely raised the hairs on the back of Amanda's neck. She had studied the schematics, of course, and the theory behind the operation was elegant – but she knew that it was quite another thing to see the power and beauty of a trap in action and, so often, a disappointment that most were only built for one use. John was so much more artist than engineer, and she knew that as carefully as he hid the fact, it wounded his dignity to have to work through the hands of others.

The glass box for the shotgun was ready for installation, the rear door standing ajar with the mortise key in the lock. She stood on tiptoe and peered into the box, craning her neck to remind herself of the layout. The key was already tied; all she had to do was load the gun and put it in the mechanism.

_Easier said than done_, she thought, bitterly, and thought it typical of Hoffman to have left her with the difficult job. She could see at first glance that it was going to require considerable delicacy. She would have preferred to load the shotgun only after it had been set in the cradle, but there was no room.

She bit her lip nervously and thumbed a single shell into the breech, then angled her head and carefully slid the muzzle of the shotgun into the box. She hooked the gear pin behind the trigger guard, exhaled slowly to try to ease the quiver in her hands and prepared to set the weapon into place.

(_This is all your fault, Jill_)

Amanda jerked back, wailing pitifully, and the shotgun discharged, the report booming within the confines of the box. She scarcely heard it as she swirled in the rip tide of returning memories.

…_his cold lips on her as she lay barely conscious, playing with her broken, twisted body, his lascivious fingers in her mouth and his smile like broken glass. He had whispered into her ear and she had forgotten the words then, but now they were creeping back. Hoffman had walked away leaving her bloody and naked on her bed and then the lights went out and the door slammed and then, in the gloom, someone else had sat down beside her and far gentler hands had tended to her injuries_...

"No," she croaked, knees buckling. She sank to the filthy floor, her hair hanging in her eyes and her chest aching with strangled sobs.

* * *

John snapped to consciousness as the door was quietly closed and bolted. He struggled against thin air for a second before remembering where he was, then he turned his head to the side to study his silent visitor. Gordon stood stiffly beside the gurney, his lips bloodless and eyes narrow with barely restrained fury. John reached up and pulled off the oxygen mask the better to speak, but before he could frame a word the doctor had lifted one hand, palm turned out. His elegant fingers were streaked with drying blood.

"This has gone far enough," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Jill kept her head down and her eyes away from the mirror on the far wall of the interview room. She had studied her reflection in it when she had first been shown into the room, and could not bear to see the weary circles ringing her eyes a second time, let alone the subtle fear in her own gaze.

She was alone in that sterile room. It was an established psychological tactic to leave both suspects and witnesses with time to think, to consider their words and options, and she had the idea that, given the gravity of the situation, they would make her wait for some time yet. She looked down at the cup of water she'd been given, and then just as quickly looked away. It was just one more unwanted reflection.

There were footsteps outside the door and she lifted her gaze, but they passed by the interview room and she closed her eyes once more and dropped her face into her hands, pressing her fingers into her eyelids so hard that she was left with a fleeting rainbow smear across her vision.

More footsteps; and, this time, the door clicked open.

Jill's heart leapt as Strahm walked into the room, but that eagerness quickly curdled and her smile floundered and sank altogether as she took in the expression on his face. His lips were pressed shut and his eyes wide. He was poised and tense, like a deer on the verge of flight, and even without words she understood that she was being warned to remain silent and seated.

Seconds later she understood why, as Perez brushed past him, closed the door behind her and dropped a slim file onto the table without ceremony. Jill looked the young woman up and down; she had about her a placid air that Jill strongly suspected glossed over a much sharper edge. Perez drew up a chair and sat on the far side of the table. Strahm stayed where he was, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded. He hadn't taken his eyes from Jill since he'd walked into the room and seemed as if he were hardly breathing.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Tuck," said Perez. "Thanks for coming in at such short notice." She paused to open the file in front of her and seemed to consult a piece of paper at some length, but Jill knew enough to recognise a mild intimidatory tactic when she saw one. Finally, Perez looked back up with a cool smile and laced her fingers in front of her.

"I know you've spoken with my partner," she said, glancing up at Strahm, "but we need to get a few things on the record, so with your permission we'll be taping this interview."

"That's not a problem," said Jill, keeping her voice steady. She heard her own words and was aware that she sounded a trifle forced, but she was concentrating on keeping her eyes away from Strahm. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, and that was distracting enough as it was.

"I wonder if you could tell me when your ex-husband last called you?"

Jill bit her lip, simultaneously stalling for time and trying to think of a plausible response. "That would have been about a week ago now," she said, watching Perez make a cryptic note on her pad in some kind of plain shorthand that Jill didn't recognise.

"And what exactly did he discuss with you during that conversation?"

"John wants my help," said Jill, calmly. "I don't know what kind of help he meant; the call was very brief and I told him I wanted nothing to do with the games he's playing. He asked whether I'd be willing to provide medical assistance and I told him I would think about it."

"I understand," said Perez, sitting back. "We'd like to put a tap on your phone in case he calls again."

"I'm sure you would," Jill replied, "but I'd rather not. In fact," she went on, "I think I'd prefer it if my lawyer were here before I say anything else." With this, she sat back and folded her arms across her chest with as much finality as she could muster.

"Ms. Tuck," said Perez, placating, "there's no need for –"

"My lawyer, please? His name is Art Blank."

All at once, Jill was aware of a significant shift in psychological pressure as the agents looked at one another, frowning. Finally, Strahm stepped forward and placed both hands on the table, leaning into her.

"Art Blank is your lawyer?" he asked, cocking his head. Jill nodded, puzzled.

"In that case, it seems we may have a little more to discuss," said Perez smoothly. "He was reported missing yesterday and we strongly suspect John Kramer's involvement." She stood up and touched Strahm's shoulder gently, addressing him now. "Can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

Jill curled up in her chair as they left the room, her mind racing.

* * *

"_Where the fuck...hey?_"

Amanda's head jerked up savagely. She scrubbed her face clean of tears with the heels of her hands, the action rough and desperate, and then drew her nails down her cheeks, leaving vivid stripes. She was kneeling on the floor, half slumped against the Rack, and now she realised her position, shied away from it and staggered and stumbled to her feet with no more grace than a newborn foal. She spun around once and then once more, fighting the feeling that she was being watched, but the room was empty. She swallowed a sob, the sound harsh and frustrated, and then collected herself as best she could.

Matthews was evidently wide awake. She heard him screaming obscenities all the way down the corridor, and by the time she got there her already frayed nerves were hanging in tatters and she lacked the equanimity to do anything but drive a fierce, echoing kick into the door and snarl at him to pipe down.

"Now _that's_ some funny shit," he said, unexpectedly, his voice rasping. It was the first time, since he'd been brought in, that she'd heard him speak like a rational human being. It was vaguely unsettling, and though she'd been about to walk away, Amanda was taken far enough aback that she stayed put.

"Oh yeah – what's that?" she asked, aiming for cynicism but falling a little short; she heard the exhausted, uneasy quaver in her own voice quite clearly. If he heard it too, however, Matthews evidently elected to ignore it. A series of small sounds from the other side of the door suggested that he'd sat down and slumped against it before continuing to speak.

"Well, call me crazy," he rasped, "but it sounds to me as if you think you're having a bad day. Am I right?"

Amanda jabbed an aggressive finger at him. Madness, she knew; he couldn't see the gesture.

"Why don't you mind your own business and shut the fuck up?" she snapped. "You don't know _shit_ about what I've been through."

"Oh, you're right, I'm sorry," retorted Matthews, and she was struck by the change in his voice, which was now clear and sharp and decorated with the sarcasm for which she'd been trying. "I really don't know anything about your day and I totally apologise for my presumption. How about I tell you about _my_ day so we can compare notes, huh?"

She remained silent, and simply backed to the far wall of the corridor where she rested her weight on her shoulders, thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans and stared at the cell door, her gaze sullen.

"Well, I woke up this morning when I pissed myself again," said Matthews, venomously. "That'd be one of those nifty little side effects of whatever shit you're shovelling into my food, and hey, it's not like I'm ungrateful. It keeps me warm, after all.

"After I spent a few hours staring at the ceiling while I dried out, some asshole in a mask came in and – you're gonna _love_ this part – knocked out two of my teeth! Ain't that special? I have one right here if you don't believe me. I think I swallowed the other one, but the blood washed it down easy enough so that's all right, and I should get it back in ten to twelve hours.

"I think I went out cold after that, but when I woke up dinner was served. By the way, did I mention that I'm not getting enough nutrition from the watered down crap you're feeding me on a semi-regular basis so I've had to find my own? Yeah, I bet you wondered what the deal was with the rats, huh? On that subject, I'll give you a little tip in case you ever need it: squeeze 'em first. You get a lot more of the juice out.

"_Anyway_," he finished, his tone now almost conversational, "that about brings me up to date. It's not a complicated schedule, as you can see, and in some ways I'm kinda looking forward to the day when you finally get bored, drag me out of here and kill me. At least it'll be a change of scene."

Amanda had been pacing the corridor throughout this litany, five steps up and five steps down in a tight, unhappy little pavane. Now she stopped and lunged, slamming her palm against the steel hard enough to bruise.

"What the fuck do you want me to tell you?" she yelled. "You got yourself into this, you son of a bitch. Nobody asked you to fucking frame me, did they? John tested you and you failed, so deal with it!"

For several seconds there was silence on the far side of the door; hot, festering silence that blistered the air. It left her time to wonder just how high her moral high ground really was, and then to bite back the whole question as hard as she could.

"The game was rigged," spat Matthews.

Amanda bridled. "You had a chance like everyone else!" she said. "If you'd followed the rules, if you'd just done as he asked you...Daniel was safe!"

"_I didn't know that, you jacked-up cunt!_" Matthews screamed, and then stopped. Incredibly, she could hear him laughing, the sound low and hoarse and desperate. Finally, the chuckling died away and he issued a choked sigh.

"He's not going to kill you," said Amanda, her voice breaking a little. "That's against the rules."

"It doesn't matter what the rules are," he told her, flatly. "John's not in charge any more. Shit, even I can tell that and I've been locked in this fucking toilet for months. Who's your big friend, by the way? I suppose I should have seen that one coming. There's no way a cancer patient and a junkie were running this show alone, I mean, you had to have _some_ hired muscle, right?"

_Hired muscle_. Amanda considered the phrase and laughed bitterly to herself. Not too long ago she'd thought little else of Mark Hoffman herself. A catastrophic underestimation, and one for which she'd been savagely burned. She lifted her arm and studied the bruises around her wrist, some of which were so clearly outlined that she could make out the shape of the chain's links. Beneath them, much paler in contrast, were her self-inflicted scars. _Beneath that, though?_ She grinned, although the expression was far from humorous. Beneath the bruises and the scars were the usual suspects: pain, loneliness, doubt and betrayal.

"You don't want to know about him," she said, bringing her face closer to the door so that she could hiss through the crack. "Trust me on this."


	11. Chapter 11

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Jill closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the window of her apartment, finding it soothing and, more to the point, distracting. She didn't want to turn around and face Strahm, knowing that as soon as she did she would have to start lying to him again. There was enough unhappiness in his voice; she didn't want to see it etched in his eyes as well.

"Perez doesn't trust me any more," he was saying, grimly, "and I can't say I blame her. I _really_ dropped the fucking ball here."

"No," said Jill, turning around. "I did." She saw that she'd been right. His expression was set in cold and disappointed lines; the sight stabbed at her and she fought the urge to turn away once more. "Look," she went on, desperately, "I've known Art a long time both professionally and personally. I just didn't think it mattered."

"He's John's lawyer. He's John's business partner, for Christ's sake, Jill. He's also gone missing. How could that not _matter_?"

Jill fought for words for a moment. In truth she was still in shock herself; she struggled to understand what John could possibly intend by abducting Art Blank, and the fact that this facet of the game had been kept from her had thrown her completely off balance. She was, thus, in no fit state to deal with anything, let alone Strahm's hurt and angry queries.

"I know this looks bad, but –"

"You're damn right it looks bad, Jill, it looks pretty god-damned bad for the both of us" he said, vehemently, but then he was crossing the room in two quick strides and taking her head between his hands, looking closely into her eyes. "One word, one chance, and I swear I'll believe whatever you say, but I want you to look me in the eye when you say it: are you protecting someone?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He shook her gently. "Who?"

"_You_," Jill told him, stepping back, moving away from his touch, "but you won't let me do that, will you?" she went on. "What would you say if I asked you to drop this case? Just walk away?"

"I can't do that," Strahm told her, although he stumbled over the words and looked away.

"Can't or won't?" she asked, bitterly, but as she did so he moved in and folded her into his arms, and then his face was buried in her shoulder. For a second she thought she felt him sob as quietly as possible, but then the moment was gone and he raised his face to hers.

"We're out of time, aren't we," he said, and Jill understood at once that it wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said, then linked her hands behind his neck, "but not tonight," and then, having run out of words for the time being, kissed him gently. For long seconds he didn't respond, and she felt him shake with stoicism in the warmth of her embrace.

"Let it go," she breathed, her lips a ghost against the corner of his mouth. "Whatever it is, just let it go for tonight. No promises, no duty, no questions or lies. Just you and me. One more time. It's all we have left."

This time she was sure; Strahm stifled an unhappy sigh against her cheek and then moved to return her soft affections with his own, tilting her head back, kissing and biting at her throat, but so tenderly and smoothly that she shook with delicious shivers and caught at him, her nails raking his skin even through his shirt. He gasped and drew back long enough for Jill to see a fire flare in his eyes, and then he closed in again and lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the bedroom.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, setting her down and gliding his hand up her thigh. She stopped him with one hand, laying a butterfly-soft finger across his lips.

"Shh, no questions, remember?" she said, quietly, and stroked his face over and over, trying to memorise the texture of his skin, the curve of his brow, the warmth of his eyes and that small, sad, faraway expression to which he seemed eternally given. He nuzzled her palm like a puppy and Jill turned her attention to his tie, loosening the knot and casting it aside, then unbuttoning his shirt.

She heard Strahm loose a small primeval noise as she placed her lips against the pulse in his throat and moved down, murmuring her pleasure as she licked gently at his chest. She revelled in the sweet, musky taste and scent of him a little longer and then raised her head once more. He smiled down at her now, and Jill felt a raw wound open up in her heart at the sight: it was not the smile she'd seen him wear before – the one that seemed perpetually touched with distant and irreparable sorrow – but something truly angelic, and so pure that for a moment she wasn't sure she could bear to look at it.

"It's okay, it really is," he said, and once again she felt as if he'd heard her thoughts. Then he was undressing her with solemn care, his movements slow and considerate, and when he pulled her up and into his arms, Jill wrapped herself around him and for a moment they clung together in stillness and silence. Only after the beat of several breaths did Strahm shift position, entering her with such sudden need and urgency that she drew a shaky breath.

"_That's it_," she whispered, her voice low and sweet, as he thrust into her. His movements were slow and languid, and she sensed that he intended to savour each stroke as fully as possible. She arched her back and matched his rhythm, the two of them curling and writhing together, perfectly synchronised, lost in each other's flesh. Somewhere in the midst of this, she felt as though she reached a climax, but if so it was cool and turbulent and passed beneath the threshold of perception.

Jill moved now, raising her knees a little higher and allowing Strahm to penetrate her even more deeply. In response, he gasped into her hair and speeded his pace. She wriggled beneath him and tasted the warm moisture in the hollow of his throat, panting desperately against his skin, and as she scratched her nails across the small of his back he tensed, groaning softly, and spent himself inside her.

She held him as tightly as she could as his shudders abated, turning her face away, not wanting him to see that her eyes were, quite suddenly, filled with tears.

* * *

Amanda heard the tape recorder click just as she pushed through the door.

She stopped dead for a second and looked at the tableau in front of her, slightly puzzled. John removed his thumb from the switch and placed the recorder on the tray at his bedside. His eyes were upon her face and seemed clear enough, though tainted with the tiniest hint of discomfort. His inner gaze, however, seemed fixed to a point quite some way away in both space and time. Regardless, he was offering her a small, gentle smile, and it was so rare that she saw him do so that she moved forward gratefully.

"Another tape?" she asked, reaching out for it instinctively. "I thought we were all done?"

John's hand closed over her curious fingers and stopped her in her tracks. "It's a small matter of insurance, and nothing with which you should concern yourself," he said, softly, squeezing her hand once before releasing it. Amanda knew that she shouldn't be so emotional over such a small kindness even after what had happened, but she was, suddenly, powerless to keep her stinging eyes from filling up. She turned her head away to cover her shame.

"Talk to me," said John, touching her arm. "You swore to trust in me, so trust me and tell me what's wrong."

(_you dirty little bitch_)

Amanda jerked reflexively at the sudden memory, gasping, her hand slipping from John's feeble grasp. She saw that her frightened withdrawal had bewildered and hurt him, and she regretted it immediately.

Blinking back the worst of the blurred vision, she drew up a chair and sat down beside the gurney. She swept back her tangled hair and studied John's expression in detail, and all at once her intended confession faltered and died in the back of her throat. His face was drawn and pale, nothing but the picture of concern, and she wondered all at once just how much – or how little – he really knew. Should she confess that her resistance to Hoffman's predatory intentions had been token, at best? Would John understand that part of her had relished and encouraged the brutality and the way they'd both drawn blood? If this was a test, she was suddenly mortally afraid of failing. She had long since weighed the prospect of death against the prospect of John's disappointment, and knew which of the two struck more terror into her heart.

(_I'm sorry I know this hurts_)

She'd been so sure of what she'd heard even through the pain and the fever, but now...was it John's voice? _Was it? _If not, who had come to her aid in the darkness? She screwed up her eyes and tried to piece together a memory that felt like a scattering of shattered glass; each individual image was outlined in bright, sharp lines, but the whole made no sense whatsoever and resisted all her attempts at resolution.

(_You didn't deserve this_)

"No, I didn't," she whispered, not realising that she'd spoken aloud until John's gaze sharpened with curiosity. Distracted, unsure of herself, Amanda hopped to her feet and started to circle the room, her pace agitated, one hand rubbing and pinching reflexively at the back of her neck in an attempt to keep her restless fingers away from her cutting scars.

"I've let you down," she said, her voice cracking.

"No, you haven't," he told her, calmly.

"But you have to be sure, right?" she asked, halting mid-pace and rounding on John with her lips drawn back. "Everything's a test. You can't trust anyone. Except Hoffman," she added sourly, flapping an angry hand in the air. "He's the only one who gets a pass. He's your fucking golden boy," she finished, fists clenched in impotent fury. She cast a poisonous look at John, who merely returned this glare with his usual sad sobriety.

"Detective Hoffman will one day face his demons as you faced yours, you may depend upon that," he told her. He paused to take a sip of oxygen and his chest fluttered momentarily. "I don't know how I can make it clear how much you mean to me if you can't see it by yourself. I wish I could give you the truth that would set your mind at rest, but there's nothing I can do for you unless you first have faith. Without that, anything I tell you now will fall on stony ground."

She felt it. For only the second time since her initial test, Amanda felt a turning point. She had snapped and she had..._screamed at him, why did you do this to me I could have died, and he had endured her flailing fists and her hysterical shrieks and held her to him and stroked her hair and then, only then, when she had subsided into broken, childlike sobs did he lift her head and say, but you didn't and I need you to understand just what that means..._

"Do you understand?" he asked her.

"No," she said, her voice hollow, and turned away.


	12. Chapter 12

**(A/N: This scene proved emotionally gruelling to write and I debated its inclusion for some time. In the end I felt it warranted, but please be forewarned it may be triggering for some.)**

**

* * *

**

Jill pulled up at the rear of the plant and switched off the engine, and simply sat for a while, staring into the congested shadows.

Strahm had left her apartment in sorrowful silence, pausing at the door only to press his lips to her forehead and wrap her fingers in his palm before walking away, head bowed. She lifted her hand to her face now, studying it, almost as if he might have left some trace upon her skin; something that she might see, some kind of keepsake, but there was nothing. She looked away and crossed her arms over her breasts, looking out into the gloom once more.

The building in front of her seemed more dispiriting than ever. There was an evening fog creeping in off the harbour like a prowling cat, the vapour sidling around corners and forming a sickly, yellowed nimbus around the naked sodium lamp above the back door. The fog had also brought with it a suffocating blanket of silence so thick that even the hum of passing traffic on the nearby interstate was effectively muffled. She sighed to herself and got out of the car, at which point the miasma settled at once on her hair and shoulders, creating a dim, fiery sparkle wherever it landed.

Only as she approached did she see the beaten-up panel truck parked in the deepest reach of the shadows between the doorway and the steel fence at the side of the loading bay. The tail gate was down, and now Hoffman stepped out onto the dock and regarded her coolly. Jill returned his gaze as best she could for a moment, but in the next second she shifted her focus and her priorities, noticing that he had a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. All Jill could see was a tangle of fine, mousy hair and one small white hand, resting limply on the detective's chest.

"Take her inside and let me take a look at her," said Jill, her voice shaking slightly. "It's cold out here."

For once, she observed with no small gratitude for the fact, it seemed that Hoffman was content to obey a simple instruction without comment. Cradling the child close to keep her as warm as possible, he stepped into the dusty gloom and led the way through the workshop to the holding cell that had been prepared. Jill knelt down by the side of the mattress and watched him put Corbett down as gently as he could, smoothing her tumbled hair before standing up again; Jill was yet again struck by how tender Hoffman could be under some circumstances. She frowned minutely, but then noticed that he had caught her eye and looked back down at the unconscious girl.

"What did you use?" she asked, lifting one wrist to check the child's pulse, which she found to be thumping a little too hard for her liking.

"Ketamine, fifty milligrams," said Hoffman. "It was either that or the thiopental, and you told me not to use that again, so..." he shrugged and tailed off, still gazing at Corbett. "Is she okay?"

Jill, still concerned for her young patient's health, didn't respond for a moment. Instead, she laid her head on the girl's chest and listened to her breathing, which was a touch raspy but otherwise strong and steady. Finally, she sat back and laid a palm on Corbett's clammy forehead as the girl shifted ever so slightly in her stupor, lips parting with a throaty gasp.

"The dose was probably a little too high for her body weight, so she may be out for a while yet," she said at last, "but I don't think she's in any danger. I'll check on her again in a while." Jill straightened up. Unexpectedly, Hoffman offered her a courtly hand to help her to her feet, and she was so thrown by the gesture that she accepted it without thinking. Only once she was standing again did she think once more and draw back her hand, suspicious and watchful.

"What's wrong?" he asked, after he'd locked the door behind them. Jill turned back, still wary, but now also mildly puzzled. His voice was calm, his tone betraying nothing but solicitude, and his gaze professed genuine concern as far as she could see.

"Why do you ask?" she said, trying for more confidence than she felt, when the truth was that she was now suffering a nauseating blend of confusion and unease. If she were honest she'd admit that he had always possessed a talent for leaving her off balance, but this was by far the worst time yet.

"Because," he said, quietly, "any idiot can see you've been crying." So saying, Hoffman moved closer and traced a soft line down her cheek with one fingertip, following the ghost tracks left by her tears.

_Don't_, she thought, but something stopped the word on its way to her throat and her objection died unvoiced. Jill turned her head a little, her eyes closed, and brushed her mouth across his hand; he responded by gliding his fingers into her damp hair and stroking the nape of her neck in careful little circles. After a while she opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was unreadable.

"I won't be seeing Agent Strahm again," she told him, trying to keep the unhappy quiver from her voice. "It was a stupid thing to do and it could have backfired on all of us." Hoffman didn't respond, didn't speak, merely continued his soft ministrations.

"I trusted you once upon a time," she continued, her voice distant in spite of her desire to wound him with her words. "I wanted so much to help you."

It might have been her imagination, but it felt as if his fingers had paused for a fraction of a second. Then the moment passed, and they were circling once more.

"Sometimes I wonder if you've _ever_ listened to me," she finished, reaching up and pushing his hand away from her neck gently but firmly.

"I'm not the bad guy you think I am," he whispered, closing her head between his palms and moving to kiss her forehead, her brow, her cheek. He moved lightly and with infinite care, covering the marks of her recent weeping with his lips, breathing slowly onto her tingling flesh. A second passed, then two, and some inner turmoil took hold of Jill's hands. She raised her palms and pushed against Hoffman's shoulders, drawing away from him, shaking her head sadly.

"I have no idea _what_ you are, Mark, and I don't think I ever did," she said, huskily, "All I feel around you is confusion. What is this, another one of your games?" She tilted her head, eyes tracking his features for any sign, a single flicker of any reaction at all. "Are you even in there any more?"

She saw it briefly as she had once before, a tiny flash of human vulnerability in the depths of those cool eyes, there and gone again before she could fix upon it, but this time she remembered that she'd..._read the news reports of Angelina's murder with a heavy heart, appreciating just what had driven him to butchery even if she could not condone it. She ran saddened eyes over the crime scene photos, then set them aside and glanced instead at a lurid and intrusive newspaper picture of the detective at his sister's funeral. Only now did she turn to study the man himself for the first time, still unconscious in his restraints and looking eerily peaceful, and she touched his face and said_,_ I'm so sorry..._

"I'm the one who should be saying that," said Hoffman, which startled Jill into the realisation that she'd given quiet vent to the memory. To her chagrin, she felt a blush rising on her cheek, but as she battled down this unsolicited affection something else rose to meet it, and she found that she was suddenly and incandescently angry instead.

"'Sorry' stops working after a while," she said, her voice flat, and she stepped even further away, crossing her arms to put up a barrier between them. "The idea is that you learn from your mistakes, if that's even an adequate word for everything you've done. Good God." She laughed, and heard the sound as if through someone else's ears. It was bitter and profoundly tired.

"Jill, just listen to me..." he said, and now he seemed little short of desperate for her forgiveness, so it was with a genuine stab of regret that Jill turned her head away from him, breaking contact with what she hoped was some degree of finality.

There was a soft whisper of air and, all at once, he was close in front of her and taking hold of her wrists, his grip not hard but nevertheless implacable. She started in surprise, and then tried to pull free. Now Hoffman tightened his grasp, and she met his gaze, hoping to reason with him there. Instead, what she saw terrified her to the depths of her heart; his eyes were sad and reproachful, lacking anything approaching malice, and for the first time she considered the possibility that he was utterly and irretrievably insane.

"Please don't scream," he said, his tone hushed and pleading, pulling her against his chest and nuzzling her cheek. Jill had frozen like a cornered animal, hadn't even considered crying out until he spoke, but now she twisted away from him and drew a deep breath.

Hoffman reacted immediately, and now his hand was clamped over her mouth and he was pulling her to the cold concrete floor, shoving her down on her back and straddling her. Jill struggled against his weight and managed to raise herself from the floor, but in the next second he had drawn back and dealt her a brutal backhanded blow to the the temple. Black clouds bloomed across her field of vision and she sagged, dazed for a few seconds. Through ears full of squealing white noise, she heard him speaking to her.

"You'll put out for that fucking boy scout but not for me?" he hissed, pulling at his tie, loosening it. "Why couldn't you just keep still and shut up, huh? Why do you _always_ have to piss me off? I never wanted it to be like this..." He dragged the tie off and grabbed her hands, wrapping it around her wrists and tying them tightly.

"Stop this," Jill muttered, her voice still clogged with concussion. She couldn't quite focus on Hoffman until he leaned in close to her, and when he did, his breath was harsh and hot. He licked her face, just once, and then seized the front of her blouse, ripping it open with one rough jerk. She raised her bound hands and tried to push him back, feebly, but he subdued her with contemptuous ease and buried his face in her breasts, rubbing his cheek against her cold, shaking flesh.

"Good girl, that's right, just relax," Hoffman gasped, sliding his hand up her leg and dragging her panties down. Jill's vision was clearing a little and she whined from the back of her throat, but he was already forcing her soft white thighs apart and pushing into her. The pain ripped through her and she tried again to scream, but he merely put his hand over her mouth once more and, this time, pinned her with his whole body weight as he drove into her as deeply as he could.

Head spinning from lack of air and paralysed by fear, she had no more strength to do anything but weep in silence as Hoffman moved against her like a rutting animal. He kissed her bare throat over and over again, his lips terrifyingly gentle in contrast to the ferocity of his thrusts. Jill cried out once more against his palm, but the sound was weak and hoarse, more sob than shriek, and she eventually succumbed entirely and closed her eyes.

On the far side of the room, Amanda watched from the shadows behind the open door, her knuckles crammed into her mouth and her eyes grey with horror.


	13. Chapter 13

Gordon smacked his cane against the gurney, rattling it.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said, coldly. "Hoffman needs muzzling and you know it."

John closed the file he'd been perusing; Gordon caught sight of several black and white photographs and a number of shaky pencil sketches of what he presumed to be traps, but could discern no real detail in them. Finally, John returned his attention, head rolling to one side, and as he did so, Gordon's brow drew into a troubled frown.

"John, how long has it been this bad? _John?_" he said, and snapped his fingers in front of the man's face, producing no reaction. Gordon pulled his penlight from his pocket and shone it into each of John's eyes in turn, noting that his right pupil remained wide open. Not a good sign.

"Since it seems I'm the only one around here prepared to be totally honest with you," he said, moving over to the medicine cabinet to search for anything that might be of use, "I might as well say it: you're dying. The time for abstract terms and hedged bets is over, John. If you have more than a week left I'll be surprised." He pulled out a bottle, shook his head grimly as he read the label and put it back. "I gave you Lynn for her sake, not yours, because she's no more capable of miracles than I am."

He gave up on the paltry stock of stolen drugs with a pained sigh and turned back to his patient. John seemed to be recovering from the seizure and his eyes were coming back into some semblance of focus – although it was anyone's guess what silent damage the stroke had been inflicting in the meantime. He moved back to John's bedside and held up a hand, fingers extended.

"Three," said John, his voice rough but strong enough. Gordon nodded, and picked up one thin white wrist to search for a pulse, which he located only on the second attempt; John's blood pressure was sinking fast and his arteries were correspondingly hard to trace. Without the benefit of an MRI, there was no telling just how badly the tumour was screwing up his circulatory system.

"You know, it's not too late to stop this," said Gordon quietly, as he timed John's weak, bounding pulse. "You could still die with a little peace. Is this really where you want to spend your last days?"

"Peace isn't what I hope to achieve," John breathed, and then coughed weakly.

"Look – just give me the word and I'll deal with Hoffman," said Gordon, desperately. "Damn it, do I have to walk in here with _Jill's_ blood all over my hands before you'll understand just how dangerous he is?"

"I have plans for Detective Hoffman," said John. "I've left nothing to chance, believe me. When all of this is concluded you'll see the bigger picture, I promise you."

Gordon stiffened and fixed him with a piercing stare.

"I found your protégé half insensible and covered in blood," he said, displaying nothing but the barest glimpse of what was now a hot blade of fury. "Was _that_ part of your bigger picture, too? You know, it seems to me sometimes that it's not much safer to be on your side than in your way."

"You don't understand."

"Clearly," said Gordon, acidly, turning aside. "It's time I left. If you really believe you have everything around you under control, then there's no need for me to stay, is there?"

Gordon left without waiting for an answer, shoulders hunched in disgust, stalking down the claustrophobic corridors in search of fresher air. As he slipped out of the rear door, however, some movement across the yard caught his eye and he ducked into the well behind the fire escape, holding his breath. He saw that his caution had been called for as he watched Hoffman approach through the darkness, carrying some kind of stuffed animal beneath his arm.

As the detective mounted the steps to the loading dock, Gordon drew back even further into the shadows, his fists tightening in helpless rage.

* * *

Jill came to her senses wrapped in someone's arms, and struggled fitfully for two seconds before she realised who held her. She coughed to clear her clotted throat and turned over onto her side, gazing up into Amanda's wide, worried eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should have warned you..." Amanda said, her voice ending in a pathetic croak as she seemed to run out of both air and apologies at one and the same time. Jill ignored this for the moment and sat up, realising as she did so that she was still lying on the floor. She pulled the ripped edges of her blouse together, making a vague, distracted attempt to fasten it. It eventually penetrated her fuzzy consciousness that every single button had been torn off, and she gave up with a small sob. She shifted position again and tried to draw her legs up beneath her, but this caused a violent stab of pain in her lower belly and she folded up once more with a breathless cry.

"You're bleeding," said Amanda, her voice agonised. "I should get you cleaned up. Can you stand?"

After a few stumbles, and with Amanda's arm wrapped around her waist, Jill managed to get to her feet. Her head felt a little clearer now, but this clarity came with its own price, and she screwed up her eyes for a second as random memories clawed at her. She blinked, and turned her head as Amanda urged her towards the curtained alcove with the cot.

"Is he still here?" she asked, quietly, hoping that he wasn't.

"No," said Amanda, tightening her grasp with an unhappy frown as Jill missed a step and swayed slightly. "He left a while ago. Said he had to go fetch something for the kid. Here," she added, sitting her down on the narrow bed. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

Jill waited until Amanda had hurried away through the workshop before she allowed herself to crumple. Her head lolled and rolled onto her shoulder, her vision blurred and she slumped sideways, head sinking into the meagre pillow. In the relative privacy behind her eyelids she tried to put her smashed and scattered thoughts in order, but as she did so, she realised that something else was clamouring for her attention. Something important. Something Amanda had said...

Soft footsteps roused her again, and she rolled over as Amanda returned bearing a bowl of hot water and a cloth and set these down by the bed.

"You should have warned me?" said Jill.

Amanda's eyes darted away like frightened mice, and her knuckles were, all at once, shading to white. She gnawed her lip and sat down by the bed, but still seemed unable to look Jill in the eye.

"Did he hurt you, too?" asked Jill. This seemed to push the young woman even further away, and Jill struggled up and reached out, laying a hand on her arm. "Amanda? I have to know."

For long moments, Jill wasn't sure whether she could reach her. Finally, haltingly, Amanda moved to sit on the bed itself and stared down at her hands with eyes dark and glazed, like those of a dead bird. Her fingers were restless, nails scratching obsessively at her wrists, which Jill now saw were painfully red and scarred. She raised her head, swallowed and began to speak.

Jill, for her part, merely listened in grim silence as she retrieved the cloth and began to swab the smears of congealing blood from her thighs; as she rinsed the rag again and again, the water in the bowl gradually darkened until it resembled cranberry juice.

She knew she should have been traumatised, bowed and broken, and it therefore came as something of a shock to Jill to find that, for the most part, she wasn't. She was too preoccupied with discomfort, indignation, humiliation and a crushing weight of anger to deal with the deeper ramifications of the assault. Perhaps, she understood, there would be time for that emotional confrontation later – but as she listened to Amanda's story, which she recited in a small, fragile monotone, the one overwhelming feeling that plagued Jill was a savage desire for restitution.

"Amanda, look at me," she said, when the tale wound down into stuttering silence. "No," she insisted, placing cool fingers on Amanda's cheek and turning her head around gently but firmly, "look at me. This is not your fault."

"I didn't know what he was capable of," she said, brokenly.

"Neither of us did," agreed Jill, her eyes still searching Amanda's expression with infinite care, "but it's not a crime to trust someone. He fooled us once, and we both paid dearly for that, but twice? No." She shook her head savagely. "I should have taken better care of you, I should have been here for you, and for that I _am_ at fault, but this..."

Amanda's face was running with hot tears, which at last betrayed the creeping cracks in her iron façade. Jill sighed wearily and folded her arms around the younger woman as she curled up and started to shiver.

"I'll tell you a little story," she said quietly, pressing her cheek against the top of Amanda's head for a second. "When I first met you, I could see I had a fight on my hands. I wasn't sure if anything I could say or do would persuade you that you deserved better than a short life spent sticking dirty needles in your arm, and every time, honey, _every single time _I saw you at the clinic I expected it to be the last."

"John saved me," said Amanda, her voice cracked and slightly muffled against Jill's shoulder.

"That's my point," Jill corrected her, gently. "He didn't. You saved yourself, and you proved me badly wrong along the way. If nothing else, you certainly need to give yourself credit for making a woman readjust the focus of her life's work. Yes?" She drew back, looking Amanda over now.

"What are we going to do about Hoffman?" asked Amanda, swiping at her wet face with the back of her hand. "Should we tell John?"

"You leave him to me," said Jill, evenly. "As for John...no. There's nothing he can do in his condition and I don't want him upset when he's so sick. This is my problem and I'll deal with it."

"How?"

_That's a good question_, thought Jill. _How indeed?_ She had no avenue of recourse that occurred to her, and without knowing what evidence he'd accrued against her, she was aware that the detective could pose just as much of a threat to her dead as he did in life. She closed her eyes and hung her head in frustration for a second, but when she opened them again, a soft gleam caught her eye from the floor of the workshop.

She tilted her head curiously, then bent to pick up the object at her feet. It was the key John had given her, which had evidently been ripped from her neck during the struggle. She turned it over and over in her fingers, her thoughts ticking over quietly, and then slipped it into her pocket.

"Can I talk to you, Jill?"

She swung around, staring over her shoulder. Hoffman was framed in the doorway, clutching a stuffed frog. She would probably have laughed at the odd picture if the circumstances had been different. As it was, she turned back for a moment and gripped Amanda's shoulders to restrain her; the young woman was suddenly ramrod stiff and vibrating with barely checked hostility.

"Stay there," Jill whispered as quietly as she could, and then collected her frail dignity and crossed the workshop floor.


	14. Chapter 14

Thankfully, Corbett was still asleep; Jill hadn't wanted the child to wake up and see the bloodstains on her hands. She stooped to place the plush frog on the pillow by the girl's head and then retreated, closing and locking the door as quietly as she could. She took a moment to compose herself and then turned into Hoffman's inscrutable gaze.

"About what happened –" he began, but she cut across his words. "Nothing happened," she said, "because John isn't going to find out about it unless _you_ want to be the one to walk in there and confess. Do you?"

"No," he admitted, after what seemed to be a brief moment of internal conflict. Jill studied him carefully for a second more, then turned and walked away. The tunnels were bone-achingly cold for the time of year, and it was not lost on her that she was still wearing nothing but her badly torn clothing. She heard Hoffman trailing after her like a dog, but paid him no attention and returned to the workshop in search of something warmer.

Amanda had left in the meantime, presumably to fetch Lynn Denlon from the hospital. Her absence solved several pressing issues, and Jill looked at the foot of the bed to see if there was anything in Amanda's trunk that she could wear. She pulled out a white sweater, studied it critically, and only then realised that Hoffman was still watching her. She turned on him.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she demanded.

"We still need to talk," he said, meeting her gaze with what appeared to be the greatest of difficulty. Jill's hand tightened reflexively around the sweater, then she set it aside and faced him down.

"Okay, you want to talk, let's talk," she said, coldly. "Let's discuss the fact that you raped me, shall we?" She watched him flinch; the sight should have given her a sense of triumph, but instead it merely twisted something sharp in her guts. "Oh, I'm so sorry, don't you like that word?" she went on, scathing. "It's not pretty, I know, but it _is_ accurate. I thought you wanted to talk, so what do you have to say for yourself? Huh?"

Something at the back of Jill's mind clamoured for her attention, trying to restrain her tongue, pointing out that after everything she'd been through it could not possibly be a wise move to antagonise him further. She shoved back, subduing this quiet inner voice, finding that she was left incapable of caring about the consequences of her words. As she looked closer, however, she could swear that she saw a subtle flicker of shame in his eyes as they crossed her face. Disobeying her better judgement for the time being, she addressed it.

"Why did you do it, Mark?" she asked, quietly. "I'd really like to know."

"What does it matter," he said, holding her gaze for one more second before turning aside. "I can't take it back, can I?"

One second was all it took, and when it was done with Jill almost recoiled. In that poor slice of time she'd seen something pass across his features that stunned her. For the merest scrap of eternity he'd looked lost and bewildered, as if in freshly ruined innocence, as if some window in his battle-scarred psyche had opened and she'd been offered a glimpse of the unsullied child he must once have been – and then this expression flicked its tail and darted back into the depths as the predator returned, teeth bared.

"Is there anyone in there worth saving?" said Jill, mostly to herself, but far too late in any case. Hoffman stood back and looked her up and down, lip curling.

"I tried to apologise," he said, his voice gentle but laden with ice. "It wasn't good enough for you."

"I see," she replied. "And you thought I'd respond better for being raped?"

"If that's what you want to call it," he said, dismissively.

Jill's eyes flashed. "Well," she said, "we could always ask Amanda what she'd call it, because she'd know, after all. Did you really think that nobody would find out what you did to her?" Jill paused as something on the night stand caught her attention, and she reached down and picked up Amanda's knife. "Come any closer and you're going to lose an eye," she said, calmly, hefting the weapon. "Now go away. I need to get changed."

Despite every instinct that screamed at her not to turn her back on him, Jill did so, dropping the knife back into the box and picking up the sweater once more. She heard a harsh sigh, then footsteps, and then the distant squeal of the sick room door.

She was painfully aware that time was growing short, so she finished changing and headed for the final room. The ice block steamed gently in the low light as she entered and she approached it, laying her naked palm on the shining wet surface, dabbling her fingertips in the melt water. After a few seconds the cold made her wince and she withdrew her hand, shaking the painful tingle from her skin.

She turned then, and jumped a little; Amanda had drifted into the room on quiet feet and was standing behind her shoulder, eyes fixed upon the machinery before her, a strange smile haunting her lips. Only after a moment of epiphany and a miserable twist in her soul did Jill realise that that odd little expression betrayed a festering boil of resentment.

"It's not real," said Amanda, her voice raw. "He's finally tested and it's all a lie. That just fucking figures."

"That's not what this is," said Jill helplessly, wondering at the same time who she was defending, and why.

"Then what is it?"

Amanda didn't seem to require a response; Jill, feeling that she had none to offer in any case, was grateful for this. She watched the young woman circle the mechanism, studying the ice blocks, the chains and pulleys, and finally the heavy chair on the counterweight. Her eyes, all but black in the low light, gleamed dully.

"You need to trust that John knows what he's doing," said Jill.

Amanda laughed, the sound small and empty. "See, that'd be fine," she said, "but trust is supposed to go both ways. Well, it's not doing that, is it, and I don't think I have the strength any more. In a lot of ways I had it easier out on the streets, where I –" She stopped abruptly, her eyes slitted. Jill turned to see what had attracted her attention. Hoffman was lounging in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, arms folded, watching them.

"Ladies," he said, casually. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

The words were smooth and the tone superficially civil, but something cruel lurked beneath them, something vile swimming in his voice like an eel in the gritty shallows. Jill flexed her fingers by her side, cultivating a hot, vivid mental image of closing them around his throat instead. She stood as still as she could and watched him cross the floor to the chair, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt as he did so. Amanda backed away as he approached, edging behind Jill, who felt yet another of her frayed heartstrings give way at this. They both watched the detective settle himself in the chair and fix them with an expectant look.

Jill started forward, but all at once she felt slim, cool fingers close around her arm, and then Amanda was moving out of her shadow and walking over to the chair.

"I'll do it," she said, quietly. Jill was desperate to object, to take charge, and found herself trying to watch both Amanda's hands and Hoffman's cold, calculating stare at the same time. Her tongue, however, seemed rooted in her mouth and would not respond to her wishes.

Amanda bent and fastened the restraints around Hoffman's ankles, then straightened up and moved towards the first of the straps on the arms of the chair. Jill watched her cautiously. The young woman kept her head down and seemed calm to the point of catatonia, but someone who knew what they were looking for would have seen the faintest of unhappy quivers about her lower lip as she reached out to buckle the strap around his wrist. She moved slowly and methodically, testing the tension with a short tug, making sure it was loose enough without being obviously so, then moved to the other and repeated the process. The detective studied her blandly as she worked on him, head on one side, and when she tightened the second strap with a particularly rough jerk, he grinned.

"Are you getting off on this?" he asked, conversationally.

Jill burned with outrage, feeling it flare in her chest like magnesium. She saw Amanda's back stiffen and stepped forward at once, meaning to intervene, but she'd not taken more than one step when Amanda turned and walked away, heading back to the desk near the door. Jill released a small, hot breath and relaxed imperceptibly.

Too soon. Amanda turned on her heel, hair flying, and charged at Hoffman with a throaty snarl that scaled the octaves to a shriek. She had seized a vicious iron hook from the desk and was now swinging it back at shoulder height. Jill had a quarter of a second in which to think of a hundred and one reasons to let events unfold and simply watch as his face was slashed to bloody ribbons, and then she cursed herself and lunged, grabbing the other woman's wrist. The hook, which had already begun its descent, jerked to a halt and shivered violently a few inches from Hoffman's left eye.

Out of the side of her vision, Jill could see the horrified look on his face and felt a momentary stab of pleasure, but as much as she wanted to she had no time to luxuriate in the sight. She reached out and gripped Amanda's shoulder and half-led, half-dragged her to the far side of the room.

"No," she said quietly, once they were out of earshot. "I promise you'll have justice because I'll see to it myself if I have to, but not here, not now and _not like this_. Okay?" So saying, she extended a hand and plucked the hook from Amanda's suddenly slack grasp. "Now, I want you to calm down and go fetch Detective Matthews. We need to finish setting up here."

No response. Jill shook her shoulder gently. "Amanda, the clock's ticking. _Go!_" Finally, Amanda seemed to return to some semblance of sanity and her wandering eyes focused once more. She nodded grimly but thankfully at Jill, set her jaw and left the room.

Jill silently counted to five before turning around, but when she did so she directed a baleful stare at Hoffman and lifted the hook, making sure he saw the movement as clearly as possible, then approached him in chilly silence. He was smirking. Even after everything he'd said and done, that cool and hateful half smile was still plastered across his face. She watched it for a while, tilting her head first to one side then the other, then glanced down at the weapon she still held. She shrugged briefly, tossed it away with a clatter and then drew back her fist and hit him as hard as she could.

"Are you getting off on _this?_" she mocked him sweetly. He shook the surprise out of his eyes, only to replace it with a grimace as the pain struck and blood flowed. Jill, all business, reached over his shoulder before he could recover his wits and wrapped the last strap around his neck, sliding the end through the buckle and pulling on it, raising an alarmed gurgle from the detective, which she ignored. She waited until she had his full attention and then leaned in even closer.

"That's twice I've had your life in my hands," she said, placidly. "If it happens again I'll make sure that you die as slowly as possible. Do you understand me?"

She waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she realised that she was probably pulling on the strap a little too hard, and released it a quarter inch. Hoffman sucked in a strangled, gargling breath and nodded.

"Touch me again and I'll kill you. Touch Amanda again and I'll kill you. Do you think you can remember all of that, or should I write it down for you?"

Another furious nod, accompanied by a fresh rivulet of blood from his nostril. Jill acknowledged this, and then picked up the strip of cloth, weighing it thoughtfully. She caught his eye again; his gaze was drenched in sullen hostility but she detected no real fight.

"Any last words?" she asked, running the cloth between her fingers and then drawing it taut with a whip-like snap. Hoffman watched her movements with unblinking, reptilian patience.

"I'll let you know," he growled, and with this odd prophecy dispensed, he merely licked the blood from his lips and then averted his gaze as Jill gagged him and then walked away without looking back.

The door slammed, and silence held court for long seconds, broken only by the steady, sonorous drip of water from the melting ice. Hoffman closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

After a while, he laughed to himself.

* * *

**(Final A/N: ...and that, as they say, is where we came in. Thank you. Thank you all so much for providing the finest encouragement and praise for which an author could ever hope. I was as nervous as hell about switching genres from comic fantasy to erotic thriller, but I swear, every single review I received for this story brought me immense pride. I am honoured to have entertained and intrigued you and I promise I'll be back after the holidays with another tale. Until then, let it be known that you all rule...hard.)**


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